THE  POOLS   OF   SILENCE 


THE 


POOLS    OF    SILENCE 


BY 


H.   DE  VERE    STACPOOLE 

AUTHOR  OF 

1THE  BLUE  LAGOON,"  "THE  CKIMSON  AZALEAS," 
"GARRYOWEN,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 


Published,  July,  1910 


THE  TROW  PRESS,  NEW  YORK 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS 


PART  I 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.    A  LECTURE  OF  THENARD'S        ...  3 

II.    DR.  DUTHIL 11 

III.  CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS 19 

IV.  SCHAUNARD      .          .          .          .          .          .          .30 

V.    MARSEILLES 42 

PART  II 

VI.    MATADI 51 

VII.    YANDJALI 56 

VIII.    THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CONGO  FOREST        .  64 

IX.     BIG  GAME .72 

X.     M'BASSA 80 

XI.     ANDREAS  MEUS 84 

XII.    NIGHT  AT  THE  FORT 94 

PART  III 

XIII.  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE      .               .       .  101 

XIV.  BEHIND  THE  MASK 110 

XV.    THE  PUNISHMENT 115 

XVI.    DUE  SOUTH  123 


392274 


VI 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

AFTER  PAQK 

XVII.  SUN- WASHED  SPACES     .                      .  127 

XVIII.  FAB  INTO  ELEPHANT  LAND  .       .       .130 

XIX.  THE  GREAT  HERD 140 

XX.  THE  BROKEN  CAMP       ....  152 

XXI.  THE  FEAST  OF  THE  VULTURES   .       .  159 

XXII.  THE  LOST  GUIDE  .                               .  164 

XXIII.  BEYOND  THE  SKY  LINE        .       .       .173 

XXIV.  THE  SENTENCE  OF  THE  DESERT        .  181 
XXV.  TOWARD  THE  SUNSET    ....  187 

XXVI.  THE  FADING  MIST        ....  192 

XXVII.  I  AM  THE  FOREST         ....  200 

XXVIII.  GOD  SENDS  A  GUIDE     ....  204 

XXIX.  THE  VISION  OF  THE  POOLS                .  212 


PART  IV 

XXX.  THE  AVENGER 219 

XXXI.  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  FOREST  BY  NIGHT  230 

XXXII.  MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  POOL   .        .        .  236 

XXXIII.  THE  RIVER  OF  GOLD    ....  245 

XXXIV.  THE  SUBSTITUTE 252 

XXXV.  PARIS 258 

XXXVI.  DREAMS 266 

XXXVII.  BERSELIUS  BEHOLDS  His  OTHER  SELF  273 

XXXVIII.  THE  REVOLT  OF  A  SLAVE    ...  280 

XXXIX.  MAXINE 283 

XL.  PUGIN 296 

XLI.  THE  RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  304 

XLII.  AMIDST  THE  LILIES  315 


PART  ONE 


CHAPTER  I 

A   LECTURE   OF   THENARD*S 

THE  sun  was  setting  over  Paris,  a  blood-red  and 
violent-looking  sun,  like  the  face  of  a  bully 
staring  in  at  the  window  of  a  vast  chill  room. 

The  bank  of  cloud  above  the  west,  corrugated  by 
the  wind,  seemed  not  unlike  the  lowermost  slats  of  a 
Venetian  blind;  one  might  have  fancied  that  a  great 
finger  had  tilted  them  up  whilst  the  red,  callous,  cruel 
face  took  a  last  peep  at  the  frost-bitten  city,  the  frost- 
bound  country  —  Montmartre  and  its  windows,  winking 
and  bloodshot;  Bercy  and  its  barges;  Notre  Dame,  where 
icicles,  large  as  carrots,  hung  from  the  lips  of  the  gar- 
goyles, and  the  Seine  clipping  the  cite  and  flowing  to  the 
clean  but  distant  sea. 

It  was  the  fourth  of  January  and  the  last  day  of  Felix 
Thenard's  post-graduate  course  of  lectures  at  the  Beau- 
jon  Hospital. 

Post-graduate  lectures  are  intended  not  for  students, 
using  the  word  in  its  limited  sense,  but  for  fully  fledged 
men  who  wish  for  extra  training  in  some  special  sub- 
ject, and  Thenard,  the  famous  neurologist  of  the  Beaujon, 
had  a  class  which  practically  represented  the  whole  con- 
tinent of  Europe  and  half  the  world.  Men  from  Vienna 

3 


4  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

and  Madrid,  Germany  and  Japan,  London  and  New  York, 
crowded  the  benches  of  his  lecture  room.  Even  the 
Republic  of  Liberia  was  represented  by  a  large  gentleman, 
who  seemed  carved  from  solid  night  and  polished  with 
palm  oil. 

Dr.  Paul  Quincy  Adams,  one  of  the  representatives 
of  America  at  the  lectures  of  Thenard,  was  just  reach- 
ing the  entrance  of  the  Beaujon  as  the  last  rays  of  sun- 
set were  touching  the  heights  of  Montmartre  and  the 
first  lamps  of  Paris  were  springing  alight. 

He  had  walked  all  the  way  from  his  rooms  in  the 
Rue  Dijon,  for  omnibuses  were  slow  and  uncomfort- 
able, cabs  were  dear,  and  money  was,  just  at  present, 
the  most  unpleasant  thing  that  money  can  convert  itself 
into  —  an  object. 

Adams  was  six  feet  two,  a  Vermonter,  an  American 
gentleman  whose  chest  measurements  were  big,  almost, 
as  his  instincts  were  fine.  He  had  fought  his  way  up, 
literally  from  the  soil,  putting  in  terms  as  seaside  cafe 
waiter  to  help  to  pay  his  college  fees;  putting  aside  every- 
thing but  honour  in  his  grand  struggle  to  freedom  and 
individual  existence,  and  finishing  his  college  career 
with  a  travelling  scholarship  which  brought  him  to  Paris. 

Individualism,  the  thing  that  lends  something  of 
greatness  to  each  American,  but  which  does  not  tend  to 
the  greatness  of  the  nation,  was  the  mainspring  of  this 
big  man  whom  Nature  had  undoubtedly  designed  with  her 
eye  on  the  vast  plains,  virgin  forests,  and  unfordable 
rivers,  and  across  whose  shoulder  one  half  divined  the 
invisible  axe  of  the  pioneer. 


A  LECTURE  OF  THENARD'S  5 

He  was  just  twenty-three  years  of  age,  yet  he  looked 
thirty:  plain  enough  as  far  as  features  go,  his  face  was  a 
face  to  remember  in  time  of  trouble.  It  was  of  the 
American  type  that  approximates  to  the  Red  Indian, 
and  you  guessed  the  power  that  lay  behind  it  by  the  set 
of  the  cheek-bones,  the  breadth  of  the  chin  and  the  rest- 
fulness  of  the  eyes.  Like  the  Red  Indian,  Paul  Quincy 
Adams  was  slow  of  speech.  A  silent  man  with  his 
tongue. 

He  entered  the  hospital  and  passed  down  a  long  cor- 
ridor to  the  cloakroom,  where  he  left  his  overcoat  and 
from  there,  by  another  corridor,  he  found  his  way  to  the 
swing-door  of  the  lecture  theatre.  It  wanted  five  minutes 
to  the  hour.  He  peeped  over  the  muffing  of  the  glass; 
the  place  was  nearly  full,  so  he  went  in  and  took  his  seat, 
choosing  one  at  the  right  hand  end  of  the  first  row  of  the 
stalls  —  students'  vernacular  for  the  lowest  row  of  the 
theatre  benches. 

The  theatre  was  lit  with  gas.  It  had  whitewashed 
walls  bare  as  the  walls  of  a  barn;  a  permanent  black- 
board faced  the  audience,  and  the  air  was  suffocatingly 
hot  after  the  crisp,  cold  air  of  the  streets.  It  would  be 
like  this  till  about  the  middle  of  the  lecture,  when  Alphonse 
the  porter  would  pull  the  rope  of  the  skylight  and  ven- 
tilate the  place  with  an  arctic  blast. 

This  room,  which  had  once  been  an  anatomical  theatre, 
and  always  a  lecture  room,  had  known  the  erect  form  of 
Lisfranc;  the  stooping  shoulders  of  Majendie  had  cast 
their  shadow  on  its  walls;  Flourens  had  lectured  here  on 
that  subject  of  which  he  had  so  profound  a  knowledge  — 


6  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

the  brain;  the  echoes  of  this  room  had  heard  the  foun- 
dations of  Medicine  shift  and  change,  the  rank  heresies 
of  yesterday  voiced  as  the  facts  of  to-day  —  and  vice  versa. 

Adams,  having  opened  his  notebook  and  sharpened 
his  pencil,  sat  listening  to  the  gas  sizzling  above  his 
head;  then  he  turned  for  a  moment  and  glanced  at  the 
men  behind  him:  the  doctor  from  Vienna  in  a  broadly 
braided  frock-coat  with  satin  facings,  betraying  himself 
to  all  men  by  the  end  of  the  clinical  thermometer  protrud- 
ing from  his  waistcoat  pocket;  the  two  Japanese  gentle- 
men —  brown,  incurious,  and  inscrutable  —  men  from 
another  world,  come  to  look  on;  the  republican  from 
Liberia,  and  the  rest.  Then  he  turned  his  head,  for  the 
door  on  the  floor  of  the  theatre  had  opened,  giving  entrance 
to  Thenard. 

Thenard  was  a  smallish  man  in  a  rather  shabby  frock- 
coat;  his  beard  was  scant,  pointed,  and  gray-tinged;  he 
had  a  depressed  expression,  the  general  air  of  a  second- 
rate  tradesman  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy;  and  as  he 
entered  and  crossed  to  the  estrade  where  the  lecture 
table  stood  and  the  glass  of  water,  he  shouted  some  words 
vehemently  and  harshly  to  Alphonse,  the  theatre  atten- 
dant, who,  it  seemed,  had  forgotten  to  place  the  box  of 
coloured  chalks  on  the  table  —  the  sacred  chalks  which  the 
lecturer  used  for  colouring  his  diagrams  on  the  blackboard. 

One  instantly  took  a  dislike  to  this  shabby-looking 
bourgeois,  with  the  harsh,  irritable  voice,  but  after  awhile, 
as  the  lecture  went  on,  one  forgot  him.  It  was  not  the 
profundity  of  the  man's  knowledge,  great  though  it  was, 
that  impressed  one;  or  the  subtlety  of  his  reasoning  or 


A  LECTURE  OF  THENARD'S  7 

the  lucidity  of  his  expression,  but  his  earnestness,  his 
obvious  disregard  for  everything  earthly  but  Truth. 

This  was  borne  in  on  one  by  every  expression  of  his 
face,  every  gesture  of  his  body,  every  word  and  every 
tone  and  inflection  of  his  voice. 

This  was  the  twelfth  and  last  lecture  of  the  course. 
It  was  on  the  "Brain  Conceived  as  a  Machine  Pure  and 
Simple." 

It  was  a  cold  and  pitiless  lecture,  striking  at  the 
root  of  poetry  and  romance,  speaking  of  religions,  not 
religion,  and  utterly  ignoring  the  idea  which  stands 
poised  like  a  white- winged  Victory  over  all  other  ideas  — 
the  Soul. 

It  was  pitiless  because  it  did  these  things,  and  it  was 
terrible  because  it  was  spoken  by  Thenard,  for  he  was 
just  standing  there,  a  little,  oldish  man,  terribly  con- 
vincing in  his  simplicity,  absolutely  without  prejudice, 
as  ready  to  acknowledge  the  soul  and  its  attributes  as  to 
refuse  them,  standing  there  twiddling  his  horsehair 
watch-chain,  and  speaking  from  the  profundity  of  his 
knowledge  with,  at  his  elbow,  a  huge  army  of  facts, 
instances,  and  cases,  not  one  of  which  did  not  support 
his  logical  deductions. 

I  wish  I  could  print  his  lecture  in  full.  I  can  only 
give  some  few  sentences  taken  at  haphazard  from  the 
peroration. 

"The  fundamental  basis  of  all  morality  can  be  ex- 
pressed by  the  words  Left  —  or  Right.  'Shall  I  take 
the  path  to  the  right,  when  my  child  is  being  threatened 
with  death  by  a  pterodactyl,  or  shall  I  take  the  path  to 


8  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

the  left  when  a  mastodon  is  threatening  to  put  a  foot  on 
my  dinner  ? ' 

"The  prehistoric  man  asking  himself  that  question 
in  the  dawn  of  time  laid  the  foundation  of  the  world's 
morality.  Do  we  know  how  he  answered  it?  Yes  — 
undoubtedly  he  saved  his  dinner. 

"The  prehistoric  woman  crouching  in  the  ferns, 
wakened  from  sleep  by  the  cries  of  her  child  on  the  left 
and  the  shouting  of  her  man  on  the  right,  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  the  question,  *  Shall  I  court  self-de- 
struction in  attempting  to  save  It,  or  shall  I  seek  safety 
with  Him?9  Do  we  know  how  she  answered  that  ques- 
tion ?  Undoubtedly  she  took  the  path  to  the  left. 

"The  woman's  Right  was  the  man's  Left,  and  she 
took  it  not  from  any  motive  of  goodness  but  just  because 
her  child  appealed  to  her  as  powerfully  as  his  dinner 
appealed  to  the  man.  And  which  was  the  nobler  instinct  ? 
In  prehistoric  times,  gentlemen,  they  were  both  equally 
noble,  for  the  instinct  of  the  man  was  as  essential  to  the 
fact  that  you  and  I  are  here  gathered  together  in  enlight- 
ened Paris,  as  the  instinct  of  the  woman. 

"Right  or  Left?  That  is  still  the  essence  of  morals 
—  all  the  rest  is  embroidery.  Whilst  I  am  talking  to 
you  now,  service  is  being  held  at  the  Madeleine,  the 
Bourse  is  closed  (looking  at  his  watch),  but  other  gaming 
houses  are  opening.  The  Caf£  de  Paris  is  filling,  the  Little 
Sisters  of  the  Poor  are  visiting  the  sick. 

"We  feel  keenly  that  some  people  are  doing  good  and 
some  people  are  doing  evil.  We  wonder  at  the  origin 
of  it  all,  and  the  answer  comes  from  the  prehistoric  forest. 


A  LECTURE  OF  THENARD'S  9 

"  'I  am  Determination.  I  can  choose  the  Right  or  I  can 
choose  the  Left.  Whilst  dwelling  in  the  man's  heart 
my  choice  lies  that  way,  in  the  woman's  heart  that  way. 

"'I  am  not  religion,  but  between  the  man  and  the 
woman  I  have  created  an  essential  antagonism  of  motive 
which  will  be  the  basis  of  all  future  religions  and 
systems  of  ethics.  I  have  already  dimly  demarcated 
a  line  between  ferocity  and  greed,  and  a  thing  which 
has  yet  no  name,  but  which  will  in  future  ages  be 
called  Love. 

"'I  am  a  constant  quantity,  but  the  dim  plan  I  have 
traced  in  the  plastic  brain  will  be  used  by  the  ever-building 
years;  spires  and  domes  shall  fret  the  skies,  priests  unroll 
their  scrolls  of  papyri,  infinite  developments  of  the  simple 
basic  Right  and  Left  laid  down  by  me  shall  combine  to 
build  a  Pantheon  of  a  million  shrines  to  a  million  gods  — 
who  are  yet  only  three:  the  tramp  of  the  mastodon,  the 
cry  of  the  child  in  the  pterodactyl's  grip,  and  myself, 
who  in  future  years  shall  be  the  only  surviving  god  of  the 
three  —  Determination. ' 

"The  Pineal  Gland  had  no  known  function,  so  Des- 
cartes declared  it  to  be  the  seat  of  the  soul.  *  There 
is  nothing  in  here.  Let  us  put  something  in,'  and  he 
put  in  the  idea  of  the  soul.  That  was  the  old  method. 

"Morphology  teaches  us  now  that  the  Pineal  Gland 
is  the  last  vestige  of  an  eye  which  once  belonged  to  a 
reptile  long  extinct.  That  is  the  new  method;  the  results 
are  not  so  pretty,  but  they  are  more  exact." 


10  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"You  have  finished  your  post-graduate  work,  and 
I  suppose  you  are  about  to  leave  Paris  like  the  others. 
Have  you  any  plans  ?" 

The  lecture  was  over,  the  audience  was  pouring  out 
of  the  theatre,  and  Adams  was  talking  to  Thenard,  whom 
he  knew  personally. 

"Well,  no,"  said  Adams.  "None  very  fixed  just  at 
present.  Of  course  I  shall  practise  in  my  own  coun- 
try, but  I  can't  quite  see  the  opening  yet." 


CHAPTER  II 

DR.    DUTHIL 

THENARD,  with  his  case-book  and  a  bundle  of 
papers  under  his  arm,  stood  for  a  moment  in 
thought.  Then  he  suddenly  raised  his  chin. 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  on  a  big-game  shooting 
expedition  to  the  Congo?" 

"Ask  a  child  would  it  like  pie,"  said  the  American, 
speaking  in  English.  Then,  in  French,  "Immensely, 
monsieur.  Only  it  is  impossible." 

"Why?" 

"Money." 

"Ah,  that's  just  it,"  said  Thenard.  "A  patient 
of  mine,  Captain  Berselius,  is  starting  on  a  big- 
game  shooting  expedition  to  the  Congo.  He  requires 
a  medical  man  to  accompany  him,  and  the  salary 
is  two  thousand  francs  a  month  and  all  things 
found " 

Adams's  eyes  lit  up. 

"  Two  thousand  a  month! " 

"Yes;  he  is  a  very  rich  man.  His  wife  is  a 
patient  of  mine.  When  I  was  visiting  her  yester- 
day the  Captain  put  the  thing  before  me  —  in  fact, 
gave  me  carte  blanche  to  choose  for  him.  He  requires 

11 


12  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

the  services  of  a  medical  man  —  an  Englishman  if 
possible " 

"But  I'm  an  American,"  said  Adams. 

"It  is  the  same  thing,"  replied  Thenard,  with  a 
little  laugh.  "You  are  all  big  and  strong  and  fond 
of  guns  and  danger." 

He  had  taken  Adams  by  the  arm  and  was  leading 
him  down  the  passage  toward  the  entrance  hall  of  the 
hospital. 

"The  primitive  man  is  strong  in  you  all,  and  that 
is  why  you  are  so  vital  and  important,  you  Anglo-Saxons, 
Anglo-Celts,  and  Anglo-Teutons.  Come  in  here." 

He  opened  the  door  of  one  of  the  hcuse-surgeon's 
rooms. 

A  youngish  looking  man,  with  a  straw-coloured  beard, 
was  seated  before  the  fire,  with  a  cigarette  between  his  lips. 

He  rose  to  greet  Thenard,  was  introduced  to  Adams, 
and,  drawing  an  old  couch  a  bit  from  the  wall,  he  bade 
his  guests  be  seated. 

The  armchair  he  retained  himself.  One  of  the  legs 
was  loose,  and  he  was  the  only  man  in  the  Beaujon  who 
had  the  art  of  sitting  on  it  without  smashing  it.  This 
he  explained  whilst  offering  cigarettes. 

Thenard,  like  many  another  French  professor,  unoffi- 
cially was  quite  one  with  the  students.  He  would  snatch 
a  moment  from  his  work  to  smoke  a  cigarette  with  them; 
he  would  sometimes  look  in  at  their  little  parties.  I 
have  seen  him  at  a  birthday  party  where  the  cakes  and 
ale,  to  say  nothing  of  the  cigarettes  and  the  unpawned 
banjo,  were  the  direct  products  of  a  pawned  microscope. 


DR.  DUTHIL  13 

I  have  seen  him,  I  say,  at  a  party  like  this,  drinking  a 
health  to  the  microscope  as  the  giver  of  all  the  good  things 
on  the  table  —  he,  the  great  Thenard,  with  an  income  of 
fifteen  to  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  a  reputa- 
tion solid  as  the  four  massive  text-books  that  stood  to  his 
name. 

"Duthil,"  said  Thenard,  "I  have  secured,  I  believe, 
a  man  for  our  friend  Berselius."  He  indicated  Adams 
with  a  half  laugh,  and  Dr.  Duthil,  turning  in  his  chair, 
regarded  anew  the  colossus  from  the  States.  The  great, 
large-hewn,  cast-iron  visaged  Adams,  beside  whom 
Thenard  looked  like  a  shrivelled  monkey  and  Duthil  like 
a  big  baby  with  a  beard. 

"Good,"  said  Duthil. 

"A  better  man  than  Bauchardy,"  said  Thenard. 

"Much,"  replied  Duthil. 

"Who,  then,  was  Bauchardy?"  asked  Adams,  amused 
rather  by  the  way  in  which  the  two  others  were  discussing 
him. 

"Bauchardy?"  said  Duthil.  "Why,  he  was  the  last 
man  Berselius  killed." 

"Silence,"  said  Thenard,  then  turning  to  Adams, 
"Berselius  is  a  perfectly  straight  man.  On  these  hunt- 
ing expeditions  of  his  he  invariably  takes  a  doctor  with 
him;  he  is  not  a  man  who  fears  death  in  the  least,  but  he 
has  had  bitter  experience  of  being  without  medical  assist- 
ance, so  he  takes  a  doctor.  He  pays  well  and  is  entirely 
to  be  trusted  to  do  the  right  thing,  as  far  as  money  goes. 
On  that  side  the  contract  is  all  right.  But  there  is  another 
side  —  the  character  of  Berselius.  A  man,  to  be  the 


14  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

companion  of  Captain  Berselius,  needs  to  be  big  and 
strong  in  body  and  mind,  or  he  would  be  crushed  by  the 
hand  of  Captain  Berselius.  Yes,  he  is  a  terrible  man  in 
a  way  —  un  homme  affreux  —  a  man  of  the  tiger  type  — 
and  he  is  going  to  the  country  of  the  big  baboons,  where 
there  is  the  freedom  of  action  that  the  soul  of  such  a  man 
desires " 

"In  fact,"  said  Adams,  "he  is  a  villain,  this  Captain 
Berselius  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Thenard,  "not  in  the  least.  Be  quiet, 
Duthil,  you  do  not  know  the  man  as  I  do.  I  have  studied 
him;  he  is  a  Primitive 

"An  Apache,"  said  Duthil.  "Come,  dear  master, 
confess  that  from  the  moment  you  heard  that  this 
Berselius  was  intent  on  another  expedition,  you  deter- 
mined to  throw  a  foreigner  into  the  breach.  'No 
more  French  doctors,  if  possible/  said  you.  Is  not 
that  so?" 

Thenard  laughed  the  laugh  of  cynical  confession, 
buttoning  his  overcoat  at  the  same  time  and  preparing 
to  go." 

"Well,  there  may  be  something  in  what  you  say, 
Duthil.  However,  there  the  offer  is  —  a  sound  one 
financially.  Yes.  I  must  say  I  dread  that  two  thousand 
francs  a  month  will  prove  a  fatal  attraction,  and,  if  Mr. 
Adams  does  not  go,  some  weaker  man  will.  Well, 
I  must  be  off." 

"One  moment,"  said  Adams.  "Will  you  give  me 
this  man's  address?  I  don't  say  I  will  take  the  post, 
but  I  might  at  least  go  and  see  him." 


DR.  DUTHIL  15 

"Certainly,"  replied  Thenard,  and  taking  one  of  his 
own  cards  from  his  pocket,  he  scribbled  on  the  back  of  it  — 


CAPTAIN  ARMAND   BERSELIUS 
14  AVENUE  MALAKOFF 


Then  he  went  off  to  a  consultation  at  the  Hotel  Bristol 
on  a  Balkan  prince,  whose  malady,  hitherto  expressed  by 
evil  living,  had  suddenly  taken  an  acute  and  terrible  turn 
and  Adams  found  himself  alone  with  Dr.  Duthil. 

"That  is  Thenard  all  over,"  said  Duthil.  "He  is 
the  high  priest  of  modernism.  He  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
neurologists  have  divided  up  devilment  into  provinces, 
and  labelled  each  province  with  names  all  ending  in  enia 
or  itis.  Berselius  is  a  Primitive,  it  seems;  this  Balkan 
prince  is  —  I  don't  know  what  they  call  him  —  sure  to  be 
something  Latin,  which  does  not  interfere  in  the  least 
with  the  fact  that  he  ought  to  be  boiled  alive  in  an  anti- 
septic solution.  Have  another  cigarette." 

"Do  you  know  anything  special  against  Captain 
Berselius?"  asked  Adams,  taking  the  cigarette. 

"I  have  never  even  seen  the  man,"  replied  Duthil, 
"but  from  what  I  have  heard,  he  is  a  regular  buccaneer  of 
the  old  type,  who  values  human  life  not  one  hair.  Bau- 
chardy,  that  last  doctor  he  took  with  him,  was  a  friend 
of  mine.  Perhaps  that  is  why  I  feel  vicious  about  the 
man,  for  he  killed  Bauchardy  as  sure  as  I  didn't." 

"Killed  him?" 


16  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

o 
"Yes;  with  hardship  and  overwork." 

"Overwork?" 

"  Mon  Dieu,  yes.  Dragged  him  through  swamps  after 
his  infernal  monkeys  and  tigers,  and  Bauchardy  died  in 
the  hospital  at  Marseilles  of  spinal  meningitis,  brought 
on  by  the  hardships  of  the  expedition  —  died  as  mad  as 
Berselius  himself." 

"As  mad   as  Berselius?" 

"Yes;  this  infernal  Berselius  seemed  to  have  infected 
him    with    his    own    hunting    fever,    and    Bauchardy  — 
mon  Dieu,  you  should  have  seen  him  during  his  illness, 
shooting  imaginary  elephants,  and  calling  for  Berselius." 

"What  I  want  to  get  at  is  this,"  said  Adams.  "Was 
Bauchardy  driven  into  these  swamps  you  speak  of,  and 
made  to  hunt  against  his  will  —  treated  cruelly,  in  fact  — 
or  did  Berselius  take  his  own  share  of  the  hardships  ?  " 

"His  own  share!  Why,  from  what  I  can  understand, 
he  did  all  the  hunting.  A  man  of  iron  with  the  ferocity 
of  a  tiger  —  a  very  devil,  who  made  others  follow  him  as 
poor  Bauchardy  did,  to  his  death  — 

"Well,"  said  Adams,  "this  man  interests  me  some- 
how, and  I  intend  to  have  a  look  at  him." 

"The  pay  is  good,"  said  Duthil,  "but  I  have  warned 
you  fully,  if  Thenard  has  n't.  Good  evening." 

The  Rue  Dijon,  where  Adams  lived,  was  a  good  way 
from  the  Beaujon.  He  made  his  way  there  on  foot,  study- 
ing the  proposition  as  he  went. 

The  sporting  nature  of  the  proposal  coming  from  the 
sedate  Thenard  rather  tickled  him. 

"He  wants  to  pit  me  against  this  Berselius,"  said  Adams 


DR.  DUTHIL  17 

to  himself,  "same  as  if  we  were  dogs.  That 's  the  long 
and  short  of  it.  Yes,  I  can  understand  his  meaning  in 
part;  he  's  afraid  if  Berselius  engages  some  week-kneed 
individual,  he  '11  give  the  weak-kneed  individual  more 
than  he  can  take.  He  wants  to  stick  a  six-foot  Yankee 
in  the  breach,  instead  of  a  five-foot  froggie,  all  absinthe  and 
cigarette  ends.  Well,  he  was  frank,  at  all  events.  Hum, 
I  don't  like  the  proposition  —  and  yet  there  's  something 
—  there  's  something  —  there  's  something  about  it  I  do 
like.  Then  there  's  the  two  thousand  francs  a  month,  and 
not  a  penny  out  of  pocket,  and  there  's  the  Congo,  and 
the  guggly-wuggly  alligators,  and  the  great  big  hairy  apes, 
and  the  feel  of  a  gun  in  one's  hand  again.  Oh,  my!" 

"All  the  same,  it's  funny,"  he  went  on,  as  he  drew 
near  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  "When  Thenard  spoke 
of  Berselius  there  was  something  more  than  absence  of 
friendship  in  his  tone.  Can  old  man  Thenard  have  a 
down  on  this  Berselius  and  does  he  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
imagine  that  by  allotting  P.  Quincy  Adams  to  the  post 
of  physician  extraordinary  to  the  expedition,  he  will  get 
even  with  the  Captain  ?  My  friend,  remember  that  hymn 
the  English  Salvationists  were  yelling  last  Sunday  outside 
the  American  Presbyterian  Church  in  the  Rue  de  Berry  - 
*  Christian,  walk  carefully,  danger  is  near.'  Not  a  bad 
motto  for  Paris,  and  I  will  take  it." 

He  walked  into  the  Cafe  d'ltalie,  which,  as  everyone 
knows,  is  next  to  Mouton's,  the  pork  shop,  on  the  left- 
hand  side  of  the  Boul'  Miche,  as  you  go  from  the  Seine; 
called  for  a  boc,  and  then  plunged  into  a  game  of  dom- 
inoes with  an  art  student  in  a  magenta  necktie,  whom  he 


18  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

/x 

had  never  met  before,  and  whom,  after  the  game,  he  would, 
a  million  to  one,  never  meet  again. 

That  night,  when  he  had  blown  out  his  candle,  he 
reviewed  Thenard's  proposition  in  the  dark.  The  more 
he  looked  at  it  the  more  attraction  it  had  for  him,  and  — 
"Whatever  comes  of  it,"  said  he  to  himself,  "I  will  go 
and  see  this  Captain  Berselius  to-morrow.  The  animal 
seems  worth  the  trouble  of  inspection." 


CHAPTER  III 

CAPTAIN   BERSELIUS 

NEXT  morning  was  chill  and  a  white  Seine  mist 
wrapped  Paris  in  its  folds.     It  clung  to  the  trees 
of  the  Avenue  Champs  Elysees,  and  it  half  veiled 
the  Avenue  Malakoff  as  Adams's  fiacre  turned  into  that 
thoroughfare   and   drew   up   at   No.    14,   a  house  with 
a  carriage  drive,  a  porter's  lodge,  and  wrought-iron  gates. 

The  American  paid  off  his  cab,  rang  at  the  porter's 
lodge,  was  instantly  admitted,  and  found  himself  in  an 
enormous  courtyard  domed  in  with  glass.  He  noted 
the  orange  and  aloe  trees  growing  in  tubs  of  porcelain, 
as  the  porter  led  him  to  the  big  double  glass  doors  giving 
entrance  to  the  house. 

"He's  got  the  money,"  thought  Adams,  as  the  glass 
swing-door  was  opened  by  a  flunkey  as  magnificent  as 
a  Lord  Mayor's  footman,  who  took  the  visitor's  card  and 
the  card  of  M.  Thenard  and  presented  them  to  a  function- 
ary with  a  large  pale  face,  who  was  seated  at  a  table  close 
to  the  door. 

This  personage,  who  was  as  soberly  dressed  as  an  arch- 
bishop, and  had  altogether  a  pontifical  air,  raised  him- 
self to  his  feet  and  approached  the  visitor. 

"Has  monsieur  an  appointment 

19 


20  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

/x 

"No,"  said  Adams.  "I  have  come  to  see  your  master 
on  business.  You  can  take  him  my  card  —  yes,  that 
one  —  Dr.  Adams,  introduced  by  Dr.  Thenard." 

The  functionary  seemed  perplexed;  the  early  hour, 
the  size  of  the  visitor,  his  decided  manner,  all  taken 
together,  were  out  of  routine.  Only  for  a  moment  he 
hesitated,  then  leading  the  way  across  the  warm  and 
flower-scented  hall,  he  opened  a  door  and  said,  "Will 
monsieur  take  a  seat?"  Adams  entered  a  big  room,  half 
library,  half  museum;  the  door  closed  behind  him,  and 
he  found  himself  alone. 

The  four  walls  of  the  room  showed  a  few  books,  but 
were  mostly  covered  with  arms  and  trophies  of  the  chase. 
Japanese  swords  in  solid  ivory  scabbards,  swords  of  the 
old  Samurai  so  keen  that  a  touch  of  the  edge  would 
divide  a  suspended  hair.  Malay  krisses,  double-handed 
Chinese  execution  swords;  old  pepper-pot  revolvers,  such 
as  may  still  be  found  on  the  African  coast;  knob-kerries, 
assegais,  steel-spiked  balls  swinging  from  whips  of  raw 
hide;  weapons  wild  and  savage  and  primitive  as  those 
with  which  Attila  drove  before  him  the  hordes  of  the 
Huns,  and  modern  weapons  of  to-day  and  yesterday;  the 
big  elephant  gun  which  has  been  supplanted  by  the  express 
rifle;  the  deadly  magazine  rifle,  the  latest  products  of 
Schaunard  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  Westley  Richards 
of  London. 

Adams  forgot  time  as  he  stood  examining  these  things; 
then  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  trophies,  mounted  by 
Borchard  of  Berlin,  that  prince  of  taxidermists.  Here 
stood  a  great  ape,  six  feet  and  over  —  monstrum  horrendum 


CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  21 

—  head  flung  back,  mouth  open,  shouting  aloud  to  the 
imagination  of  the  gazer  in  the  language  that  was  spoken 
ere  the  earliest  man  lifted  his  face  to  the  chill  mystery  of 
the  stars.  In  the  right  fist  was  clutched  the  branch 
of  a  M'bina  tree,  ready  lifted  to  dash  your  brains 
out  —  the  whole  thing  a  miracle  of  the  taxidermist's 
art.  Here  crawled  an  alligator  on  a  slab  of  granitic 
rock;  an  alligator  —  that  is  to  say,  the  despair  of  the 
taxidermist  —  for  you  can  make  nothing  out  of  an  alli- 
gator; alive  and  not  in  motion  he  looks  stuffed,  stuffed, 
he  looks  just  the  same.  Hartbeest,  reedbuck,  the 
maned  and  huge-eared  roan  antelope,  gazelle,  and  bush- 
buck,  all  were  here,  skull  or  mask,  dominated  by  the 
vast  head  of  the  wildebeest,  with  ponderous  sickle- 
curved  horns. 

Adams  had  half  completed  the  tour  of  the  walls  when 
the  door  of  the  library  opened  and  Captain  Berselius  came 
in.  Tall,  black-bearded  and  ferocious  looking  —  that 
was  the  description  of  man  Adams  was  prepared  to  meet. 
But  Captain  Berselius  was  a  little  man  in  a  frock-coat, 
rather  worn,  and  slippers.  He  had  evidently  been  in 
neglige  and,  to  meet  the  visitor,  slipped  into  the  frock- 
coat,  or  possibly  he  was  careless,  taken  up  with  abstrac- 
tions, dreams,  business  affairs,  plans.  He  was  rather 
stout,  with  an  oval,  egg-shaped  face;  his  beard,  sparse 
and  pointed  and  tinged  with  gray,  had  originally  been  light 
of  hue;  he  had  pale  blue  eyes,  and  he  had  a  perpetual 
smile. 

It  is  to  be  understood  by  this  that  Captain  Berselius's 
smile  was,  so  to  speak,  hung  on  a  hair-trigger;  there  was 


22  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

always  a  trace  of  it  on  his  face  round  the  lips,  and  in  con- 
versation it  became  accentuated. 

At  first  sight,  during  your  first  moments  of  meeting 
with  Captain  Berselius,  you  would  have  said,  "What 
a  happy-faced  and  jolly  little  man!" 

Adams,  completely  taken  aback  by  the  apparition 
before  him,  bowed. 

"I  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  Dr.  Adams,  intro- 
duced by  Dr.  Thenard  ?"  said  Captain  Berselius,  motion- 
ing the  visitor  to  a  chair.  "Pray  take  a  seat,  take  a  seat 

—  yes He  took  a  seat  opposite  the  American, 

crossed  his  legs  in  a  comfortable  manner,  caressed  his 
chin,  and  whilst  chatting  on  general  subjects  stared  full 
at  the  newcomer,  as  though  Adams  had  been  a  statue, 
examining  him,  without  the  least  insolence,  but  in  that 
thorough  manner  with  which  a  purchaser  examines  the 
horse  he  is  about  to  buy  or  the  physician  of  an  insurance 
company  a  proposer. 

It  was  now  that  Adams  felt  he  had  to  deal  with  no  com- 
mon man  in  Captain  Berselius. 

Never  before  had  he  conversed  with  a  person  so  calmly 
authoritative,  so  perfectly  at  ease,  and  so  commanding. 
This  little  commonplace-looking,  negligently  dressed  man, 
talking  easily  in  his  armchair,  made  the  spacious  Adams 
feel  small  and  of  little  account  in  the  world.  Captain 
Berselius  filled  all  the  space.  He  was  the  person  in  that 
room;  Adams,  though  he  had  personality  enough,  was 
nowhere.  And  now  he  noticed  that  the  perpetual  smile 
of  the  Captain  had  no  relation  to  mirth  or  kindliness,  it 
was  not  worn  as  a  mask,  for  Captain  Berselius  had  no 


CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  23 

need  for  masks;  it  was  a  mysterious  and  unaccountable 
thing  that  was  there. 

"You  know  M.  Thenard  intimately?"  said  Captain 
Berselius,  turning  suddenly  from  some  remarks  he  was 
making  on  the  United  States. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Adams.  "I  have  attended  his  clinics; 
beyond  that " 

"Just  so,"  said  the  other.     "Are  you  a  good  shot?" 

"Fair,  with  the  rifle." 

"You  have  had  to  do  with  big  game?" 

"I  have  shot  bear." 

"These  are  some  of  my  trophies,"  said  the  Captain, 
rising  to  his  feet.  He  took  his  stand  before  the  great  ape 
and  contemplated  it  for  a  moment.  "I  shot  him  near 
M'Bassa  on  the  West  Coast  two  years  ago.  The  natives 
at  the  village  where  we  were  camping  said  there  was  a  big 
monkey  in  a  tree  near  by.  They  seemed  very  much 
frightened,  but  they  led  me  to  the  tree.  He  knew  what 
a  gun  was;  he  knew  what  a  man  was,  too.  He  knew 
that  his  hour  of  death  had  arrived,  and  he  came  roaring 
out  of  the  tree  to  meet  me.  But  when  he  was  on  the 
ground,  with  the  muzzle  of  my  Mannlicher  two  yards  from 
his  head,  all  his  rage  vanished.  He  saw  death,  and  to 
shut  out  the  sight  he  put  his  big  hands  before  his  face 

"And  you?" 

"I  shot  him  through  the  heart.  This  room  does  not 
represent  all  my  work.  The  billiard  room  and  the  hall 
contain  many  of  my  trophies;  they  are  interesting  to  me, 
for  each  has  a  history.  That  tiger  skin  there  in  front  of 
the  fireplace  once  covered  a  thing  very  much  alive.  He 


24  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

was  a  full-sized  brute,  and  I  met  him  in  a  rice  field  near 
Benares.  I  had  not  even  time  to  raise  my  gun  when  he 
charged.  Then  I  was  on  my  back  and  he  was  on  top  of 
me.  He  had  overshot  the  mark  a  bit  —  I  was  not  even 
scratched.  I  lay  looking  up  at  his  whiskers;  they  seemed 
thick  as  quills,  and  I  counted  them.  I  was  dead  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  so  I  felt  no  fear.  That  was  the 
lesson  this  gentleman  taught  me;  it  is  as  natural  to  be 
dead  as  to  be  alive.  I  have  never  been  afraid  of 
death  since.  Well,  something  must  have  distracted  his 
attention  and  frightened  him,  for  he  lifted  himself, 
passed  over  me  like  a  cloud,  and  was  gone.  Well, 
so  much  for  the  tiger.  And  now  for  business.  Are 
you  prepared  to  act  as  medical  attendant  to  my  new 
expedition  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Adams,  "I  would  like  a  little  time  to 
consider " 

"Certainly,"  said  Captain  Berselius,  taking  out  his 
watch.  "I  will  give  you  five  minutes,  as  a  matter  of  form. 
Thenard,  in  a  note  to  me  this  morning,  informs  me  he  has 
given  you  all  details  as  to  salary." 

"Yes,  he  gave  me  the  details.  As  you  give  me  so 
short  a  time  to  make  my  decision  about  you,  I  suppose 
you  have  already  made  your  decision  about  me?" 

"Absolutely,"  said  Berselius.  "Two  minutes  have 
passed.  Why  waste  the  other  three?  For  you  have 
already  made  up  your  mind  to  come." 

Adams  sat  down  in  a  chair  for  a  moment,  and  in  that 
moment  he  did  a  great  deal  of  thinking. 

He  had  never  met  a  man  before  at  all  like  Berselius. 


CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  25 

He  had  never  before  come  across  a  man  with  such  a  tre- 
mendous personality.  Berselius  fascinated  yet  repelled 
him.  That  there  was  evil  in  this  man  he  felt,  but  he  felt 
also  that  there  was  good.  Much  evil  and  much  good. 
And  beyond  this  he  divined  an  animal  ferocity  latent  — 
the  ferocity  of  a  tiger  —  a  cold  and  pitiless  and  utterly 
divorced  from  reason  ferociousness,  the  passion  of  a 
primitive  man,  who  had  never  known  law  except  the 
law  of  the  axe  wielded  by  the  strongest.  And  yet  there 
was  something  in  the  man  that  he  liked.  He  knew  by 
Berselius's  manner  that  if  he  did  not  take  the  offer  now,  he 
would  lose  it.  He  reckoned  with  lightning  swiftness  that 
the  expedition  would  bring  him  in  solid  cash  enough  to 
start  in  a  small  way  in  the  States.  He  was  as  poor  as  Job, 
as  hungry  for  adventure  as  a  schoolboy,  and  he  only  had 
a  moment  to  decide  in. 

"How  many  men  are  making  up  your  party?"  sud- 
denly asked  Adams. 

"You  and  I  alone,"  replied  Berselius,  putting  his  watch 
in  his  pocket  to  indicate  that  the  time  was  almost  expired. 

"I  will  come,"  said  Adams,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  said  the  words  against  his  will. 

Captain  Berselius  went  to  a  writing  table,  took  a  sheet 
of  paper  and  wrote  carefully  and  with  consideration  for  the 
space  of  some  five  minutes.  Then  he  handed  the  paper 
to  Adams.  "These  are  the  things  you  want,"  said  he. 
"I  am  an  old  campaigner  in  the  wilds,  so  you  will  excuse 
me  for  specifying  them.  Go  for  your  outfit  where  you 
will,  but  for  your  guns  to  Schaunard,  for  he  is  the  best. 
Order  all  accounts  to  be  sent  in  to  my  secretary,  M. 


26  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Pinchon.  He  will  settle  them.  Your  salary  you  can 
take  how  you  will.  If  it  is  useful  to  you,  I  can  give  you  a 
cheque  now  on  the  Credit  Lyonnais,  if  you  will  state  the 
amount." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Adams.  "I  have 
quite  sufficient  money  for  my  needs,  and,  if  it  is  the  same 
to  you,  I  would  rather  pay  for  my  outfit  myself." 

"As  you  please,"  said  Captain  Berselius,  quite  indif- 
ferently. "But  Schaunard's  account  and  the  account 
for  drugs  and  instruments  you  will  please  send  to  M. 
Pinchon;  they  are  part  of  the  expedition.  And  now," 
looking  at  his  watch,  "will  you  do  me  the  pleasure  of 
staying  to  dejeuner?" 

Adams  bowed. 

"I  will  notify  you  to-night  at  your  address  the  exact 
date  we  start,"  said  Captain  Berselius  as  he  led 
the  way  from  the  room.  "It  will  be  within  a  fort- 
night. My  yacht  is  lying  at  Marseilles,  and  will  take 
us  to  Matadi,  which  will  be  our  base.  She  will  be 
faster  than  the  mail-boats  and  very  much  more  com- 
fortable." 

They  crossed  the  hall,  Captain  Berselius  opened  a  door, 
motioned  his  companion  to  enter,  and  Adams  found 
himself  in  a  room,  half  morning  room,  half  boudoir.  A 
bright  log  fire  was  burning,  and  on  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place two  women  —  a  girl  of  about  eighteen  and  a  woman 
of  thirty-five  or  so  —  were  seated. 

The  elder  woman,  Madame  Berselius,  a  Parisienne, 
pale,  stout,  yet  well-proportioned,  with  almond-shaped 
eyes;  full  lips  exquisitely  cut  in  the  form  of  the  true  cupid's 


CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  27 

bow;  and  with  a  face  vigorous  enough,  but  veiled  by  an 
expression  at  once  mulish,  blindish,  and  indolent  —  was 
a  type. 

The  type  of  the  poodle  woman,  the  parasite.  With  the 
insolent  expression  of  a  Japanese  lady  of  rank,  an  insult 
herself  to  the  human  race,  you  will  see  her  everywhere  in 
the  highest  social  ranks  of  society.  At  the  Zoological 
Gardens  of  Madrid  on  a  Sunday,  when  the  grandees 
of  Spain  take  their  pleasure  amidst  the  animals  at  Long- 
champs,  in  Rotten  Row,  Washington  Square,  Unter  den 
Linden,  wherever  money  is,  growing  like  an  evil  fungus, 
she  flourishes. 

Opposite  Madame  Berselius  sat  her  daughter,  Maxine. 

Adams,  after  his  first  glance  at  the  two  women,  saw 
only  Maxine. 

Maxine  had  golden-brown  hair,  worn  after  the  fashion 
of  Cleo  de  Merode's,  gray  eyes,  and  a  wide  mouth,  with 
pomegranate-red  lips.  Goethe's  dictum  that  the  highest 
beauty  is  unobtainable  without  something  of  disproportion 
was  exemplified  in  the  case  of  Maxine  Berselius.  "Her 
mouth  is  too  wide,"  said  the  women,  who,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  the  philosophy  of  art,  hit  upon  the  defect  that  was 
Maxine's  main  charm. 

Berselius  introduced  Adams  to  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and  scarcely  had  he  done  so  than  a  servant,  in  the  blue- 
and-gold  livery  of  the  house,  flung  open  the  door  and 
announced  that  dejeuner  was  served. 

Adams  scarcely  noticed  the  room  into  which  they 
passed;  a  room  whose  scheme  of  colour  was  that  watery 
green  which  we  associate  with  the  scenery  of  early  spring, 


28  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

the  call  of  the  cuckoo,  and  the  river  echoes  where  the  weir 
foams  and  the  willow  droops. 

The  tapestry  hanging  upon  the  walls  did  not  distract 
from  this  scheme.  Taken  from  some  chateau  of  Provence, 
and  old  almost  as  the  story  of  Nicolete,  it  showed  ladies 
listening  to  shepherds  who  played  on  flutes,  capering 
lambs,  daffodils  blowing  to  the  winds  of  early  spring  under 
a  sky  gray  and  broken  by  rifts  of  blue. 

Adams  scarcely  noticed  the  room,  or  the  tapestry,  or 
the  food  placed  before  him;  he  was  entirely  absorbed 
by  two  things,  Maxine  and  Captain  Berselius. 

Berselius's  presence  at  the  table  evidently  cast  silence 
and  a  cloak  of  restraint  upon  the  women.  You  could 
see  that  the  servants  who  served  him  dreaded  him  to  the 
very  tips  of  their  fingers,  and,  though  he  was  chatting 
easily  and  in  an  almost  paternal  manner,  his  wife  and 
daughter  had  almost  the  air  of  children,  nervous,  and 
on  their  very  best  behaviour.  This  was  noticeable, 
especially,  in  Madame  Berselius.  The  beautiful,  indo- 
lent, arrogant  face  became  a  very  humble  face  indeed 
when  she  turned  it  on  the  man  who  was  evidently,  literally, 
her  lord  and  master.  Maxine,  though  oppressed  by  the 
presence,  wore  a  different  air;  she  seemed  abstracted 
and  utterly  unconscious  of  what  a  beautiful  picture  she 
made  against  the  old-world  tapestry  of  spring. 

Her  eyes  sometimes  met  the  American's.  They  scarcely 
spoke  to  each  other  once  during  the  meal,  yet  their  eyes 
met  almost  as  frequently  as  though  they  had  been  con- 
versing. As  a  matter  of  fact,  Adams  was  a  new  type  of 
man  to  her,  and  on  that  account  interesting;  very  different 


CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  29 

was  this  son  of  Anak,  with  the  restful,  forceful  face,  to  the 
curled  and  scented  dandies  of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  the 
"captains  with  the  little  moustaches,"  the  frequenters 
of  the  foyer  de  Ballet,  the  cigarette-dried  mummies  of 
the  Grand  Club.  It  was  like  the  view  of  a  mountain  to 
a  person  who  had  only  known  hills. 

Maxine,  in  her  turn,  was  a  new  type  of  woman  to 
Adams.  This  perfect  flower  from  the  Parisian  hot-house 
was  the  rarest  and  most  beautiful  thing  he  had  met  in  the 
way  of  womanhood.  She  seemed  to  him  a  rose  only  just 
unfolded,  unconscious,  of  its  own  freshness  and  beauty 
as  of  the  dew  upon  its  petals,  and  saying  to  the  world,  by 
the  voice  of  its  own  loveliness,  "Behold  me!" 

"Well,"  said  Captain  Berselius,  as  he  took  leave  of 
his  guest  in  the  smoking  room,  "I  will  let  you  know 
to-night  the  day  and  hour  of  our  departure.  All  my 
business  in  Paris  will  be  settled  this  afternoon.  You  had 
better  come  and  see  me  the  day  before  we  start,  so  that 
we  can  make  our  last  arrangements.  Au  revoir" 


CHAPTER  IV 

SCHAUNARD 

Y  |  ^HE  young  man  turned  down  the  Avenue  Malakoff, 
after  he  had  left  Berselius's  house,  in  the  direction 
of  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees. 

In  twenty-four  hours  a  complete  change  had  taken 
place  in  his  life.  His  line  of  travel  had  taken  a  new 
and  most  unexpected  course;  it  was  as  though  a  train 
on  the  North  German  had,  suddenly,  by  some  mysterious 
arrangement  of  points  and  tracks,  found  itself  on  the 
Paris-Lyons  and  Mediterranean  Railway. 

Yesterday  afternoon  the  prospect  before  him,  though 
vague  enough,  was  American.  A  practice  in  some  big 
central  American  town.  It  would  be  a  hard  fight,  for 
money  was  scanty,  and  in  medicine,  especially  in  the 
States,  advertisement  counts  for  very  much. 

All  that  was  changed  now,  and  the  hard,  definite 
prospect  that  had  elbowed  itself  out  of  vagueness  stood 
before  him:  Africa,  its  palms  and  poisonous  forests,  the 
Congo  —  Berselius. 

Something  else  besides  these  things  also  stood  before 
him  very  definitely  and  almost  casting  them  into  shade. 
Maxine. 

Up  to  this,  a  woman  had  never  stood  before  him  as  a 

30 


SCHAUNARD  31 

possible  part  of  his  future,  if  we  except  Mary  Eliza  Sum- 
mers, the  eleven-year-old  daughter  of  old  Abe  Summers, 
who  kept  the  store  in  Dodgeville,  Vermont,  years  ago  — 
that  is  to  say,  when  Paul  Quincy  Adams  was  twelve,  an 
orchard-robbing  hooligan,  whose  chief  worry  in  life  was 
that,  though  he  could  thrash  his  eldest  brother  left-handed, 
he  was  condemned  by  the  law  of  entail  to  wear  his  old 
pants. 

When  a  man  falls  in  love  with  a  woman  —  really  in 
love  —  though  the  attainment  of  his  desire  be  all  but 
impossible,  he  has  reached  the  goal  of  life;  no  tide  can 
take  him  higher  toward  the  Absolute.  He  has  reached 
life's  zenith,  and  never  will  he  rise  higher,  even  though 
he  live  to  wield  a  sceptre  or  rule  armies. 

Adams  reached  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  on  foot, 
walking  and  taking  his  way  mechanically,  and  utterly 
unconscious  of  the  passers-by. 

He  was  studying  in  minute  detail  Maxine  Berselius, 
the  pose  of  her  head  outlined  against  the  tapestry,  the 
curves  of  her  lips  that  could  speak  so  well  without  speak- 
ing, the  little  shell-like  ears,  the  brown-gold  coils  of  her 
hair,  her  hands,  her  dress. 

He  was  standing  undetermined  as  to  his  route,  and 
whether  he  would  cross  over  to  the  Rue  St.  Honore  or 
turn  toward  the  Seine,  when  someone  gripped  his  arm 
from  behind,  and,  turning,  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Dr.  Stenhouse,  an  English  physician  who  had  set 
up  in  Paris,  practising  in  the  Boulevard  Haussmann  and 
flourishing  exceedingly. 

"Well,   this   is   luck,"   said  Stenhouse.     "I  lost  your 


32  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

address,  or  I  would  have  written,  asking  you  to  come 
and  see  us.  I  remembered  it  was  over  on  the  other  side 
of  the  water  somewhere,  but  where  exactly  I  could  not 
remember.  What  are  you  doing  with  yourself?" 

"Nothing,  just  at  present." 

"  Well,  see  here.  I'm  going  to  the  Rue  du  Mont  Thabor 
to  see  a  patient;  walk  along  with  me  —  it 's  quite  close, 
just  behind  the  Rue  St.  Honore." 

They  crossed  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 

"You  have  finished  your  post-graduate  work,  I  expect," 
said  Stenhouse.  "Are  you  going  to  practise  in  the 
States?" 

"Ultimately,  I  may,"  replied  Adams.  "I  have  always 
intended  doing  so;  but  I  have  to  feel  my  way  very  cau- 
tiously, for  the  money  market  is  not  in  a  particularly 
flourishing  state  with  me." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Stenhouse,  "when  is  it  with 
a  medical  man,  especially  when  he  is  just  starting  ?  I've 
been  through  that.  See  here,  why  don't  you  start  in 
Paris?" 

"Paris?" 

"Yes,  this  is  the  place  to  make  money.  You  say  you 
are  thinking  of  starting  in  some  American  city;  well,  let 
me  tell  you,  there  are  very  few  American  cities  so  full  of 
rich  Americans  as  Paris." 

"Well,"  said  Adams,  "the  idea  is  not  a  bad  one,  but 
just  for  the  present  I  am  fixed.  I  am  going  on  a  big- 
game  shooting  expedition  to  the  Congo." 

"As  doctor?" 

"Yes,  and    the    salary    is    not    bad  —  two  thousand 


SCHAUNARD  33 

francs  a  month  and  everything  found,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  fun." 

"And  the  malaria?" 

"Oh,  one  has  to  run  risks." 

"Whom  are  you  going  with?" 

"A  man  called  Berselius." 

"Not  Captain  Berselius?"  asked  Stenhouse,  stopping 
dead. 

"Yes,  Captain  Berselius,  of  No.  14  Avenue  Malakoff. 
I  have  just  returned  from  having  dejeuner  with  him," 

Stenhouse  whistled.  They  were  in  the  Rue  du  Mont 
Thabor  by  this,  in  front  of  a  small  cafe. 

"Well,"  said  Adams,  "what's  wrong?" 

"Everything,"  replied  the  other.  "This  is  the  house 
where  my  patient  lives.  Wait  for  me,  for  a  moment,  like 
a  good  fellow.  I  shan't  detain  you  long,  and  then  we  can 
finish  our  talk,  for  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

He  darted  into  the  cafe  and  Adams  waited,  watching 
the  passers-by  and  somewhat  perturbed  in  mind.  Sten- 
house's  manner  impressed  him  uncomfortably,  for,  if 
Captain  Berselius  had  been  the  devil,  the  Englishman 
could  not  have  put  more  disfavour  into  his  tone.  And  he 
(Adams)  had  made  a  compact  with  Captain  Berselius. 

The  Rue  du  Mont  Thabor  is  a  somewhat  gloomy  little 
street,  and  it  fitted  Adams's  mood  as  he  waited,  watching 
the  passers-by  and  the  small  affairs  of  the  little  shops. 

At  the  end  of  five  minutes  Stenhouse  returned. 

"Well?"  said  Adams. 

"I  have  had  no  luncheon  yet,"  replied  Stenhouse.  "I 
have  been  so  rushed.  Come  with  me  to  a  little  place 


34  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

I  know  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  where  I  can  get  a  cup  of 
tea  and  a  bun.  We  will  talk  then." 

"Now,"  said  Stenhouse,  when  he  was  seated  at  a  little 
marble-topped  table  with  the  cup  of  tea  and  the  bun 
before  him.  "You  say  you  have  engaged  yourself  to  go 
to  the  Congo  with  Captain  Berselius." 

"Yes.    What  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"That 's  just  the  difficulty.  I  can  only  say  this,  and 
it 's  between  ourselves,  the  man's  name  is  a  byword  for 
a  brute  and  a  devil." 

"That's   cheerful,"   said   Adams. 

"Mind  you,"  said  Stenhouse,  "he  is  in  the  very  best 
society.  I  have  met  him  at  a  reception  at  the  Elysee. 
He  goes  everywhere.  He  belongs  to  the  best  clubs;  he  's 
a  persona  grata  at  more  courts  than  one,  and  an  intimate 
friend  of  King  Leopold  of  Belgium.  His  immense  wealth, 
or  part  of  it,  comes  from  the  rubber  industry  —  motor 
tires  and  so  forth.  And  he 's  mad  after  big  game.  That 's 
his  pleasure  —  killing.  He  's  a  killer.  That  is  the  best 
description  of  the  man.  The  lust  of  blood  is  in  him,  and 
the  astounding  thing,  to  my  mind,  is  that  he  is  not  a 
murderer.  He  has  killed  two  men  in  duels,  and  they  say 
that  it  is  a  sight  to  see  him  fighting.  Mind  you,  when  I 
say  'murderer,'  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  he  is  a  man 
who  would  murder  for  money.  Give  the  devil  his  due. 
I  mean  that  he  is  quite  beyond  reason  when  aroused,  and 
if  you  were  to  hit  Captain  Berselius  in  the  face  he  would 
kill  you  as  certain  as  I'll  get  indigestion  from  that  bun  I 
have  just  swallowed.  The  last  doctor  he  took  with  him 
to  Africa  died  at  Marseilles  from  the  hardships  he  went 


SCHAUNARD  35 

through  —  not  at  the  hands  of  Berselius,  for  that  would 
have  aroused  inquiry,  but  simply  from  the  hardships  of 
the  expedition;  but  he  gave  frightful  accounts  to  the 
hospital  authorities  of  the  way  this  Berselius  had  treated 
the  natives.  He  drove  that  expedition  right  away  from 
Libreville,  in  the  French  Congo,  to  God  knows  where. 
He  had  it  under  martial  law  the  whole  time,  clubbing 
and  thrashing  the  niggers  at  the  least  offence,  and 
shooting  with  his  own  hand  two  of  them  who  tried  to 
desert." 

"You  must  remember,"  said  Adams,  taking  up  the 
cudgels  for  Berselius  and  almost  surprised  himself  at  so 
doing,  "that  an  expedition  like  that,  if  it  is  not  held  together 
by  a  firm  hand,  goes  to  pieces,  and  the  result  is  disaster  for 
everyone.  And  you  know  what  niggers  are." 

"There  you  are,"  laughed  Stenhouse.  "The  man  has 
obsessed  you  already,  and  you'll  come  back,  if  you  go,  like 
Bauchardy,  the  man  who  died  in  the  hospital  at  Marseilles, 
cursing  Berselius,  yet  so  magnetized  by  the  power  of  the 
chap  that  you  would  be  ready  to  follow  him  again  if  he 
said  'Come,'  and  you  had  the  legs  to  stand  on.  That 
is  how  Bauchardy  was." 

"The  man,  undoubtedly,  has  a  great  individuality," 
said  Adams.  "Passing  him  in  the  street  one  might  take 
him  for  a  very  ordinary  person.  Meeting  him  for  the  first 
time,  he  looks  all  good  nature;  that  smile " 

"Always,"  said  Stenhouse.  "Beware  of  a  man  with 
a  perpetual  smile  on  his  face." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  but  this  smile  of  Berselius' s  is  not 
worn  as  a  cloak.  It  seems  quite  natural  to  the  man,  yet 


36  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

somehow  bad,  as  if  it  came  from  a  profound  and  natural 
cynicism  directed  against  all  things  —  including  all 
things  good." 

"You  have  put  it,"  said  Stenhouse,  "in  four  words." 

"But,  in  spite  of  everything,"  said  Adams,  "I  believe 
the  man  to  have  great  good  qualities:  some  instinct  tells 
me  so." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Stenhouse,  "did  you  ever  meet  a 
bad  man  worth  twopence  at  his  trade  who  had  not  good 
qualities  ?  The  bad  man  who  is  half  good  —  so  to  speak 
—  is  a  much  more  dangerous  villain  than  the  barrier 
bully  without  heart  or  soul.  When  hell  makes  a  super- 
excellent  devil,  the  devil  puts  goodness  in  just  as  a  baker 
puts  soda  in  his  bread  to  make  it  rise.  Look  at  Verlaine." 

"Well,"  said  Adams,  "I  have  promised  Berselius, 
and  I  will  have  to  go.  Besides,  there  are  other 
considerations." 

He  was  thinking  of  Maxine,  and  a  smile  lit  up  his  face. 

"You  seem  happy  enough  about  it,"  said  Stenhouse, 
rising  to  go.  "Well,  'he  who  will  to  Cupar  maun  to 
Cupar.'  When  do  you  start?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,  but  I  shall  hear  to-night." 

They  passed  out  into  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  where  they 
parted. 

"  Good  luck,"  said  Stenhouse,  getting  into  a  -fiacre. 

"Good-bye,"  replied  Adams,  waving  his  hand. 

Being  in  that  quarter  of  the  town,  and  having  nothing 
especial  to  do,  he  determined  to  go  to  Schaunard's  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  see  about  his  guns. 

Schaunard    personally    superintends    his    own     shop, 


SCHAUNARD  37 

which  is  the  first  gun-shop  on  the  Continent  of  Europe. 
Emperors  visit  him  in  person  and  he  receives  them  as  an 
equal,  though  far  superior  to  them  in  the  science  of  sport. 
An  old  man  now,  with  a  long  white  beard,  he  remembers 
the  fowling-pieces  and  rifles  which  he  supplied  to  the 
Emperor  Maximilian  before  that  unfortunate  gentleman 
started  on  his  fatal  expedition  in  search  of  a  throne.  He 
is  a  mathematician  as  well  as  a  maker  of  guns;  his  tele- 
scopic sights  and  wind  gauges  are  second  to  none  in  the 
world,  and  his  shop  front  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  exposes  no 
wares  —  it  has  just  a  wire  blind,  on  which  are  blazoned 
the  arms  of  Russia,  England,  and  Spain. 

But,  inside,  the  place  is  a  joy  to  a  rightly  constituted 
man.  Behind  glass  cases  the  long  processions  of  guns 
and  rifles,  smooth,  sleek,  nut-brown  and  deadly,  are  a 
sight  for  the  eyes  of  a  sportsman. 

The  duelling  pistol  is  still  a  factor  in  Continental 
life,  and  the  cases  containing  them  at  Schaunard's  are 
worth  lingering  over  9  for  the  modern  duelling  pistol  is 
a  thing  of  beauty,  very  different  from  the  murderous  hair- 
trigger  machines  of  Count  Considine  —  though  just  as 
deadly. 

To  Schaunard,  pottering  amongst  his  wares,  appeared 
Adams. 

The  swing-door  closed,  shutting  out  the  sound  of  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  the  old  gun-merchant  came  forward 
through  the  silence  of  his  shop  to  meet  his  visitor. 

Adams  explained  his  business.  He  had  come  to  buy 
some  rifles  for  a  big-game  expedition.  Captain  Berselius 
had  recommended  him. 


38  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"Ah!  Captain  Berselius?"  said  Schaunard,  and  an 
interested  look  came  into  his  face.  "True,  he  is  a  cus- 
tomer of  mine.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  guns  for  his  new 
expedition  are  already  boxed  and  directed  for  Marseilles. 
Ah,  yes  —  you  require  a  complete  outfit,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Adams.     "I  am  going  with  him." 

"Going  with  Captain  Berselius  as  a  friend?" 

"No,  as  a  doctor." 

"True,  he  generally  takes  a  doctor  with  him,"  said 
Schaunard,  running  his  fingers  through  his  beard.  " Have 
you  had  much  experience  amidst  big  game,  and  can  you 
make  out  your  own  list  of  requirements,  or  shall  I  help 
you  with  my  advice?" 

"I  should  be  very  glad  of  your  advice.  No,  I  have 
not  had  much  experience  in  big-game  shooting.  I  have 
shot  bears,  that 's  all " 

"Armand!"  cried  Schaunard,  and  a  pale-faced  young 
man  came  forward  from  the  back  part  of  the  shop. 

"Open  me  this  case." 

Armand  opened  a  case,  and  the  deft  hand  of  the  old 
man  took  down  a  double-barrelled  cordite  rifle,  light- 
looking  and  of  exquisite  workmanship. 

"These  are  the  guns  we  shoot  elephants  with  nowa- 
days," said  Schaunard,  handling  the  weapon  lovingly. 
"A  child  could  carry  it,  and  there  is  nothing  living  it  will 
not  kill.  He  laughed  softly  to  himself,  and  then  directed 
Armand  to  bring  forward  an  elephant  gun  of  the  old  pat- 
tern. In  an  instant  the  young  man  returned,  staggering 
under  the  weight  of  the  immense  rifle,  shod  with  a  heel 
of  india-rubber  an  inch  thick. 


SCHAUNARD  39 

Adams  laughed,  took  the  thing  up  with  one  hand, 
and  raised  it  to  his  shoulder  as  though  it  had  been  a 
featherweight. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  "here  's  a  gun  worth  shooting  with." 

Schaunard  looked  on  with  admiration  at  the  giant 
handling  the  gigantic  gun. 

"Oh,  for  you,"  said  he,  "it's  all  very  well.  Ma  foi, 
but  you  suit  one  another,  you  both  are  of  another  day." 

"God  bless  you,"  said  Adams,  "you  can  pick  me  up 
by  the  bushel  in  the  States.  I  'm  small.  Say,  how  much 
is  this  thing?" 

"That!"  cried  Schaunard.  "Why,  what  on  earth 
could  you  want  with  such  an  obsolete  weapon  as  that?" 

"Tell  me  —  does  this  thing  hit  harder,  gun  for  gun  — 
not  weight  for  weight,  mind  you  —  but  gun  for  gun  —  than 
that  double-barrel  you  are  holding  in  your  hands?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Schaunard,  "it  hits  harder,  just  as 
a  cannon  would  hit  harder,  but " 

"I  '11  have  her,"  said  Adams.  "I've  taken  a  fancy 
to  her.  See  here,  Captain  Berselius  is  paying  for  my 
guns;  they  are  his,  part  of  the  expedition  —  I  want  this 
as  my  own,  and  I  '11  pay  you  for  her  out  of  my  own  pocket. 
How  much  is  she?" 

Schaunard,  whose  fifty  years  of  trading  had  explained 
to  him  the  fact  that  when  an  American  takes  a  whim  into 
his  head  it  is  best  for  all  parties  to  let  him  have  his  own 
way,  ran  his  fingers  through  his  beard. 

"The  thing  has  no  price,"  said  he.  "It  is  a  curiosity. 
But  if  you  must  have  it  —  well,  I  will  let  you  have  it  for  two 
hundred  francs." 


40  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"Done,"  said  Adams.     "Have  you  any  cartridges?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Schaunard.  "Heaps.  That  is 
to  say,  I  have  the  old  cartridges,  and  I  can  have  a  couple 
of  hundred  of  them  emptied  and  re-filled  and  percus- 
sioned.  Ah,  well,  monsieur,  you  must  have  your  own 
way.  Armand,  take  the  gun;  have  it  attended  to  and 
packed.  And  now  that  monsieur  has  his  play-toy," 
finished  the  old  man,  with  one  of  his  silent  little  laughs, 
"let  us  come  to  business." 

They  did,  and  nearly  an  hour  was  spent  whilst  the 
American  chose  a  double  hammerless-ejector  cordite 
rifle  and  a  .256  sporting  Mannlicher,  for  Schaunard  was 
a  man  who,  when  he  took  an  interest  in  a  customer,  could 
be  very  interesting. 

When  business  was  concluded  Schaunard  gave  his 
customer  various  tips  as  to  the  treatment  of  guns.  "And 
now,"  said  he,  opening  the  door  as  Adams  was  taking  his 
departure,  "I  will  give  you  one  more  piece  of  advice 
about  this  expedition.  It  is  a  piece  of  private  advice, 
and  I  will  trust  you  not  to  tell  the  Captain  that  I  gave 
it  to  you." 

"  Yes.     What  is  the  advice  ?  " 

"Don't  go." 

Adams  laughed  as  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  Schaunard 
laughed  as  he  closed  the  door. 

A  passer-by  might  have  imagined  that  the  two  men  had 
just  exchanged  a  good  joke. 

Before  Adams  had  taken  three  steps,  the  door  of  the 
shop  re-opened,  and  Schaunard's  voice  called  again. 

"Monsieur." 


SCHAUNARD  41 

"Yes?"  said  Adams,  turning. 

"You  need  not  pay  me  for  the  gun  till  you  come  back." 
"Right,"  said  Adams,  laughing.      "I  will  call  in  and 
pay  you  for  it  when  I  come  back.      Au  revoir." 
"Adieu." 


CHAPTER  V 

MARSEILLES 

ON  THE  day  of  departure  Berselius  was  entertained 
at  dejeuner  by  the  Cercle  Militaire.  He  brought 
Adams  with  him  as  a  guest. 

Nearly  all  the  sporting  members  of  the  great  club 
were  present  to  speed  the  man  who  after  Schillings  was 
reckoned  on  the  Continent  the  most  adventurous  big- 
game  hunter  in  the  world. 

Despite  what  Stenhouse,  Duthil,  and  Schaunard  had 
said,  Adams  by  this  time  inclined  to  a  half-liking  for 
Berselius;  the  man  seemed  so  far  from  and  unconscious 
of  the  little  things  of  the  world,  so  destitute  of  pettiness, 
that  the  half  liking  which  always  accompanies  respect 
could  not  but  find  a  place  in  Adams's  mind. 

Guest  at  a  table  surrounded  by  sixty  of  the  wealthiest 
and  most  powerful  officers  of  a  military  nation,  Berselius 
did  not  forget  his  companion,  but  introduced  him  with 
painstaking  care  to  the  chief  men  present,  included  him 
in  his  speech  of  thanks,  and  made  him  feel  that  though 
he  was  taking  Berselius's  pay,  he  was  his  friend  and  on  a 
perfect  social  equality  with  him. 

Adams  felt  this  keenly.  On  qualifying  first  he  had 
obtained  an  appointment  as  travelling  physician  to  an 

42 


MARSEILLES  43 

American,  a  prominent  member  of  the  New  York  smart 
set,  a  man  of  twenty-two,  a  motorist,  a  yachtsman,  clean 
shaved  as  an  actor  and  smug  as  a  butler,  one  of  those  men 
who  make  the  great  American  nation  so  small  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  —  the  world  that  cannot  see  beyond  the 
servants'  hall  antics  of  New  York  society  to  the  great  plains 
where  the  Adamses  hew  the  wood  and  draw  the  water,  build 
the  cities  and  bridge  the  rivers,  and  lay  the  iron  roads, 
making  rail-heads  of  the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  and  the 
thunder  of  the  Pacific. 

This  gentleman  treated  Adams  as  a  paid  attendant  and 
in  such  a  manner  that  Adams  one  morning  lifted  him  from 
his  bed  by  the  slack  of  his  silk  pajamas  and  all  but  drowned 
him  in  his  own  bath. 

He  could  not  but  remember  the  incident  as  he  sat 
watching  Berselius  so  calm,  so  courtly,  so  absolutely 
destitute  of  mannerism,  so  incontestably  the  superior, 
in  some  magnetic  way,  of  all  the  other  men  who  were 
present. 

Maxine  and  M.  Pinchon,  the  secretary,  were  to  accom- 
pany them  to  Marseilles. 

A  cold,  white  Paris  fog  covered  the  city  that  night  as 
they  drove  to  the  station,  and  the  fog  detonators  and 
horns  followed  them  as  they  glided  out  slowly  from 
beneath  the  great  glass  roof.  Slowly  at  first,  then  more 
swiftly  over  rumbling  bridges  and  clicking  point,  more 
swiftly  still,  breaking  from  the  fog-banked  Seine  valley, 
through  snarling  tunnel  and  chattering  cutting,  faster 
now  and  freer,  by  long  lines  of  poplar  trees,  mist- 
strewn,  and  moonlit  ponds  and  fields,  spectral  white 


44  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

roads,  little  winking  towns;  and  now,  as  if  drawn  by 
the  magnetic  south,  swaying  to  the  rock-a-bye  of  speed, 
aiming  for  the  lights  of  Dijon  far  away  south,  to  the 
tune  of  the  wheels,  "  seventy-miles-an-hour  —  seventy- 
miles-an-hour." 

Civilization,  whatever  else  she  has  done,  has  written 
one  poem,  the  "Rapide."  True  to  herself,  she  makes 
it  pay  a  dividend,  and  prostitutes  it  to  the  service  of 
stockbrokers,  society  folk,  and  gamblers  bound  for 
Monaco  —  but  what  a  poem  it  is  that  we  snore  through 
between  a  day  in  Paris  and  a  day  in  Marseilles.  A  poem, 
swiftly  moving,  musical  with  speed,  a  song  built  up  of 
songs,  telling  of  Paris,  its  chill  and  winter  fog,  of  the 
winter  fields,  the  poplar  trees  and  mist;  vineyards  of  the 
Cote  d'Or;  Provence  with  the  dawn  upon  it,  Tarascon 
blowing  its  morning  bugle  to  the  sun;  the  Rhone,  and 
the  vineyards,  and  the  olives,  and  the  white,  white  roads; 
ending  at  last  in  that  triumphant  blast  of  music,  light  and 
colour,  Marseilles.  ' 

La  Joconde,  Berselius's  yacht,  was  berthed  at  the  Mes- 
sagerie  wharf,  and  after  dejeuner  at  the  H6tel  Noailles, 
they  took  their  way  there  on  foot. 

Adams  had  never  seen  the  south  before  as  Marseilles 
shows  it.  The  vivid  light  and  the  black  shadows,  the 
variegated  crowd  of  the  Canabier  Prolongue  had  for  him 
an  "Arabian  Nights'  "  fascination,  but  the  wharves  held 
a  deeper  fascination  still. 

Marseilles  draws  its  most  subtle  charm  from  far  away 
in  the  past.  Beaked  triremes  have  rubbed  their  girding 
cables  against  the  wharves  of  the  old  Phocee;  the  sun- 


MARSEILLES  45 

shine  of  a  thousand  years  has  left  some  trace  of  its  gold, 
a  mirage  in  the  air  chilled  by  the  mistral  and  perfumed 
by  the  ocean. 

At  Marseilles  took  place  the  meeting  between  Mary 
Magdalen  and  Laeta  Acilia,  so  delightfully  fabled  by 
Anatole  France.  The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo  landed 
here  after  he  had  discovered  his  treasure,  and  here  Cade- 
rouse  after  the  infamy  at* 'La  Reserved"  watched  old  Dantes 
starving  to  death.  Multitudes  of  ships,  fabled  and  real, 
have  passed  from  the  harbour  to  countries  curious  and 
strange,  but  never  one  of  them  to  a  stranger  country  than 
that  to  which  La  Joconde  was  to  bear  Berselius  and  his 
companion. 

Gay  as  Naples  with  colour,  piercing  the  blue  sky 
with  a  thousand  spars,  fluttering  the  flags  of  all  nations 
to  the  wind,  shot  through  with  the  sharp  rattle  of  winch- 
chains,  and  perfumed  with  garlic,  vanilla,  fumes  of  coal 
tar,  and  the  tang  of  the  sea,  the  wharves  of  Marseilles  lay 
before  the  travellers,  a  great  counter  eternally  vibrating 
to  the  thunder  of  trade;  bales  of  carpets  from  the  Levant, 
tons  of  cheeses  from  Holland,  wood  from  Norway,  copra, 
rice,  tobacco,  corn,  silks  from  China  and  Japan,  cotton 
from  Lancashire;  all  pouring  in  to  the  tune  of  the  winch- 
pauls,  the  cry  of  the  stevedores,  and  the  bugles  of  Port 
Saint  Jean,  shrill  beneath  the  blue  sky  and  triumphant 
as  the  crowing  of  the  Gallic  cock. 

Between  the  breaks  in  the  shipping  one  could  see  the 
sea-gulls  fishing  and  the  harbour  flashing,  here  spangled 
with  coal  tar,  here  whipped  to  deepest  sapphire  by  the 
mistral;  the  junk  shops,  grog  shops,  parrot  shops,  rope- 


46  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

walks,  ships'  stores  and  factories  lining  the  quays,  each 
lending  a  perfume,  a  voice,  or  a  scrap  of  colour  to  the  air 
vibrating  with  light,  vibrating  with  sound,  shot  through 
with  voices;  hammer  blows  from  the  copper  sheathers 
in  the  dry  docks,  the  rolling  of  drums  from  Port  St.  Nicho- 
las, the  roaring  of  grain  elevators,  rattling  of  winch-chains, 
trumpeting  of  ship  sirens,  mewing  of  gulls,  the  bells  of 
Notre  Dame  and  the  bells  of  St.  Victor,  all  fused,  orches- 
trated, into  one  triumphant  symphony  beneath  the  clear 
blue  sky  and  the  trade  flags  of  the  world. 

La  Joconde  was  berthed  beside  a  Messagerie  boat  which 
they  had  to  cross  to  reach  her. 

She  was  a  palatial  cruising  yacht  of  twelve  hundred 
tons'  burden,  built  somewhat  on  the  lines  of  Drexel's 
La  Margharita,  but  with  less  width  of  funnel. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  they  went  on 
board;  all  the  luggage  had  arrived,  steam  was  up,  the  port 
arrangements  had  been  made,  and  Berselius  determined 
to  start  at  once. 

Maxine  kissed  him,  then  she  turned  to  Adams. 

"Bon  voyage." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Adams. 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  after  his 
grasp  had  relaxed. 

Then  she  was  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  Messagerie 
boat,  waving  good-bye  across  the  lane  of  blue  water 
widening  between  La  Joconde  and  her  berth  mate. 

At  the  harbour  mouth,  looking  back  across  the  blue 
wind-swept  water,  he  fancied  he  could  still  see  her,  a 
microscopic  speck  in  the  great  picture  of  terraced 


MARSEILLES  47 

Marseilles,  with  its  windows,  houses,  flags,  and  domes 
glittering  and  burning  in  the  sun. 

Then  the  swell  of  the  Gulf  of  Lyons  took  La  Joconde 
as  a  nurse  takes  an  infant  and  rocks  it  on  her  knee,  and 
France  and  civilization  were  slowly  wrapped  from  sight 
under  the  veils  of  distance. 


PART  TWO 


CHAPTER  VI 

MATADI 

IT  WAS  evening.  La  Joconde,  Berselius's  yacht,  lay 
moored  at  the  wharf  of  Matadi;  warpling  against 
the  starboard  plates,  whimpering,  wimpling, 
here  smooth  as  glass,  here  eddied  and  frosted,  a  sea  of 
golden  light,  a  gliding  mirror,  went  the  Congo. 

A  faint,  faint  haze  dulled  the  palms  away  on  the  other 
side;  from  the  wharf,  where  ships  were  loading  up  with 
rubber,  ivory,  palm-oil,  and  bales  of  gum  copal,  the  roar 
and  rattle  of  steam- winches  went  across  the  water,  far  away 
across  the  glittering  water,  where  the  red  flamingoes  were 
flying,  to  that  other  shore  where  the  palm  trees  showed 
their  fringe  of  hot  and  hazy  green. 

The  impression  of  heat  which  green,  the  coolest  of 
all  colours,  can  produce,  damp  heat,  heart-weakening 
heat,  that  is  the  master  impression  produced  by  the 
Congo  on  the  mind  of  man.  All  the  other  impressions 
are  —  to  paraphrase  Thenard  —  embroideries  on  this. 

Yet  how  many  other  impressions  there  are!  The 
Congo  is  Africa  in  a  frank  mood.  Africa,  laying  her  hand 
on  her  heart  and  speaking,  or  rather,  whispering  the  truth. 

This  great  river  flooding  from  Stanley  Pool  and  far 
away  beyond,  draws  with  it,  like  a  moving  dream,  the 

51 


52  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

pictures  of  the  roaring  rapids  and  the  silent  pools,  the 
swamps  filled  with  darkness  of  vegetation  and  murderous 
life;  the  unutterable  loneliness  of  vast  forests.  The  water 
brook  of  the  hartbeest  and  antelope,  it  brings  with  it  their 
quiet  reflections,  just  as  it  brings  the  awful  horn  and  the 
pig-like  face  of  the  rhinoceros.  What  things  have  not 
slaked  their  thirst  in  this  quiet  water  flooding  past 
Matadi  —  and  wallowed  in  it  ?  Its  faint  perfume 
hints  at  that. 

On  the  deck  of  the  yacht,  under  the  double  awning, 
Berselius  was  seated,  and,  close  to  him,  Adams.  They 
had  arrived  only  yesterday,  and  to-morrow  they  were  pro- 
ceeding by  rail  to  Leopoldville,  which  was  to  be  the  real 
base  of  the  expedition,  leaving  La  Joconde  behind  at 
Matadi. 

The  yacht  would  return  to  France. 

"What  a  lot  of  stuff  they  are  loading  on  those  ships," 
said  Adams,  turning  in  his  chair  as  the  roar  and  rattle  of 
the  winch  chains,  that  had  ceased  for  a  moment,  flared 
up  again  like  a  flame  of  sound.  "What  are  the  exports 
here?" 

"  Gum  copal  —  nuts  —  rubber  —  tusks  —  everything 
you  can  get  out  of  there,"  answered  Berselius,  lazily 
waving  a  hand  to  indicate  the  Congo  basin. 

Adams,  leaning  back  in  his  deck  chair,  followed  with 
his  eyes  the  sweep  of  Berselius's  hand,  "over  there"; 
little  did  he  dream  of  what  those  words  held  in  their 
magic. 

Then  Berselius  went  below. 

The  moon  rose;  lights  speckled  the  misty  wharf  and 


MATADI  53 

a  broad  road  of  silver  lay  stretched  across  the  moving 
water  to  the  other  bank  that,  under  the  moonlight,  lay 
like  a  line  of  cotton- wool.  It  was  the  mist  tangled  by 
and  tangling  the  trees. 

Adams  paced  the  deck,  smoking  and  occasionally 
pausing  to  flip  off  his  cigar-ash  on  the  bulwark  rail.  He 
was  thinking  of  Maxine  Berselius.  She  had  come  to 
Marseilles  to  see  them  off,  and 

Not  a  word  had  been  exchanged  between  them  that  a 
third  person  did  not  hear  or  might  not  have  heard,  yet 
they  had  told  each  other  the  whole  of  that  delightful  story 
in  which  the  hero  is  I  and  the  heroine  You. 

Adams  on  his  side  and  Maxine  on  hers  did  not  in  the 
least  contemplate  possibilities.  A  social  river,  wide  as  the 
Congo,  and  flowing  from  as  mysterious  a  source,  lay  be- 
tween them.  Maxine  was  rich  —  so  rich  that  the  contrast  of 
her  wealth  with  his  own  poverty  shut  the  door  for  Adams 
on  the  idea  of  marriage.  He  could  not  hope  to  take  his 
true  place  in  the  world  for  years,  and  he  would  not  stoop 
to  take  a  woman's  money  or  assistance. 

He  was  too  big  to  go  through  a  back  door.  No,  he 
would  enter  the  social  temple  by  walking  between  the 
pillars  of  the  portico,  or  smashing  an  entrance  way  through 
the  wall  with  his  fist. 

He  was  a  type  of  the  true  American  man,  the  individual 
who  trusts  in  himself;  an  unpleasant  person  very  often, 
but  the  most  essentially  male  creation  in  Nature. 

Though  he  could  not  contemplate  Maxine  as  a  wife, 
he  did  as  a  woman.  In  a  state  of  savagery  he  would  have 
carried  her  off  in  his  arms;  surrounded  as  he  was  by  the 


54  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

trammels  of  civilization,  he  contented  himself  with  imag- 
ining her  in  that  position. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  no  other  woman  would  ever 
inspire  the  same  passion  in  him.  He  knew  this,  yet  he 
did  not  grumble;  for  he  was  practical,  and  his  practical 
nature  had  a  part  in  his  wildest  dreams. 

Go  to  New  York  and  look  at  the  twenty-storied, 
sky-scrapers  built  by  the  Adamses.  They  look  like  houses 
out  of  a  story  by  Dean  Swift.  The  wildest  dreams  of 
architecture.  Yet  they  don't  fall  down;  they  serve  their 
purpose,  for  the  dreamers  who  built  them  were  at  bottom 
practical  men. 

As  he  paced  the  deck,  smoking  and  contemplating  the. 
moonlit  river,  Maxine  gave  place  in  his  mind  to  her 
father. 

Berselius  up  to  this  had  shown  himself  in  no  unfavour- 
able light.  Up  to  this  he  had  been  almost  companionable. 

Almost!  They  had  dined  together,  paced  the  deck 
together,  discussed  all  sorts  of  subjects,  yet  not  by  the 
fraction  of  an  inch  had  he  advanced  in  his  knowledge 
of  the  man.  A  wall  of  ice  divided  Berselius  from  his 
fellow-men.  Between  him  and  them  a  great  gulf  was 
fixed,  a  gulf  narrow  enough  to  speak  across,  but  of  an 
impenetrable  depth.  Berselius  was  always  so  assured, 
so  impassively  calm,  so  authoritative,  his  conversation  so 
penetrative,  so  lit  by  intuition  and  acquired  knowledge, 
that  Adams  sometimes  in  his  company  felt  that  elation 
which  comes  to  us  when  we  find  ourselves  in  the 
presence  of  a  supreme  mind.  At  other  times  this 
overpowering  personality  weighed  upon  him  so  much 


MATADI  55 

that  he  would  leave  the  saloon  and   pace  the  deck  so 
as  to  become  himself  again. 

Next  morning  they  left  by  rail  for  Leopoldville,  where 
they  found  waiting  for  them  the  Leopold,  a  shallow- 
draught  steamer  of  some  two  hundred  tons. 


CHAPTER  VII 

YANDJALI 

THE  Leopold  was  officered  entirely  by  Belgians,  and 
it  would  have  been  almost  impossible  to  find  a 
pleasanter   set    of   men.     Tilkins,    the   captain, 
especially,  won  Adams's  regard.     He  was  a  huge  man, 
with    a    wife    and    family   in    Antwerp,   and    he    was 
eternally  damning  the  Congo  and  wishing  himself  back 
in  Antwerp. 

They  transhipped  to  a  smaller  boat,  the  Couronne, 
and  one  morning  shortly  after  breakfast  three  strokes 
on  the  steamer  bell  announced  their  approach  to  Yandjali. 

Imagine  a  rough  landing-stage,  a  handful  of  houses, 
mostly  mud-built,  the  funereal  heat-green  of  palm  and 
banana,  a  flood  of  tropical  sunshine  lighting  the  little 
wharf,  crammed  with  bales  of  merchandise. 

Such  was  Yandjali,  and  beyond  Yandjali  lay  the 
forest,  and  in  front  of  Yandjali  flowed  the  river,  and 
years  ago  boom-boom  down  the  river's  shining  surface, 
from  away  up  there  where  the  great  palms  gave  place  to 
reeds  and  water-grass,  you  might  have  heard  the  sound 
of  the  hippopotami  bellowing  to  the  sun,  a  deep  organ 
note,  unlike  the  sound  emitted  by  any  other  creature 
on  earth. 

56 


YANDJALI  57 

You  do  not  hear  it  now.  The  great  brutes  have 
long  ago  been  driven  away  by  man. 

On  the  wharf  to  greet  the  steamer  stood  the  District 
Commissioner,  Commander  Verhaeren;  behind  him  six 
or  seven  half-naked,  savage-looking  blacks,  each  topped 
with  a  red  fez  and  armed  with  an  Albini  rifle,  stood 
gazing  straight  before  them  with  wrinkled  eyes  at  the 
approaching  boat. 

Verhaeren  and  Berselius  were  seemingly  old  friends; 
they  shook  hands  and  Berselius  introduced  Adams; 
then  the  three  left  the  wharf  and  walked  up  to  the  Dis- 
trict Commissioner's  house,  a  frame  building  surrounded 
by  palm  trees  and  some  distance  from  the  mud  huts  of 
the  soldiers  and  porters. 

The  Yandjali  of  this  story,  not  to  be  confounded  with 
Yandjali  notorious  in  Congo  history  for  its  massacre,  is 
not  in  a  rubber  district,  though  on  the  fringe  of  one; 
it  is  a  game  district  and  produces  cassava.  The  Congo 
State  has  parcelled  out  its  territory.  There  are  the 
rubber  districts,  the  gum  copal  districts,  the  food  districts, 
and  the  districts  where  ivory  is  obtained.  In  each  of 
these  districts  the  natives  are  made  to  work  and  bring 
in  rubber,  gum  copal,  food, 'or  ivory,  as  a  tax.  The 
District  Commissioner,  or  Chef  de  Poste,  in  each  dis- 
trict draws  up  a  schedule  of  what  is  required.  Such 
and  such  a  village  must  produce  and  hand  over  so 
many  kilos  of  rubber,  or  copal,  so  much  cassava,  so 
many  tusks,  etc. 

Verhaeren  was  a  stout,  pale-faced  man,  with  a  jet- 
black  beard,  a  good-tempered  looking  man,  with  that 


58  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

strange,  lazy,  semi-Oriental  look  which  the  Belgian 
face  takes  when  the  owner  of  it  is  fixed  to  a  post,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  oversee  trade,  and  when  the  post  is 
on  the  confines  of  civilization. 

Away  up  country,  lost  in  the  dim,  green,  heat-laden 
wilderness,  you  will  find  a  different  type  of  man;  more 
alert  and  nervy,  a  man  who  never  smiles,  a  preoccupied 
looking  man  who,  ten  years  or  five  years  ago,  lost  his 
berth  in  an  office  for  misconduct,  or  his  commission  in 
the  army.  A  declasse.  He  is  the  man  who  really  drives 
the  Congo  machine,  the  last  wheel  in  the  engine,  but  the 
most  important;  the  man  whose  deeds  are  not  to  be 
written.! 

Verhaeren's  living  roonj  in  the  frame  house  was  fur- 
nished with  steamer  deck  chairs,  a  table  and  some  shelves. 
Pinned  to  the  wall  and  curling  up  at  the  corners  was  a 
page  torn  from  La  Gaudriole,  the  picture  of  a  girl  in  tights; 
on  one  of  the  shelves  lay  a  stack  of  old  newspapers,  on 
another  a  stack  of  official  papers,  reports  from  subordi- 
nates, invoices,  and  those  eternal  "official  letters,"  with 
which  the  Congo  Go/ernment  deluges  its  employees, 
and  whose  everlasting  purport  is  "Get  more  ivory,  get 
more  rubber,  get  more  copal." 

Verhaeren  brought  out  some  excellent  cigars  and  a 
bottle  of  Vanderhum,  and  the  three  men  smoked  and 
talked.  He  had  acted  as  Berselius's  agent  for  the  expe- 
dition, and  had  collected  all  the  gun-bearers  and  porters 
necessary,  and  a  guide.  It  was  Berselius's  intention 
to  strike  a  hundred  miles  west  up  river  almost  parallel 
to  the  Congo,  and  then  south  into  the  heart  of  the  ele- 


YANDJALI  59 

phant  country.  They  talked  of  the  expedition,  but  Ver- 
haeren  showed  little  knowledge  of  the  work  and  no 
enthusiasm.  The  Belgians  of  the  Congo  have  no  feeling 
for  sport.  They  never  hunt  the  game  at  their  doors, 
except  for  food. 

When  they  had  discussed  matters,  Verhaeren  led 
the  way  out  for  Berselius  to  inspect  his  arrangements. 

The  porters  were  called  up.  There  were  forty  of  them, 
and  Adams  thought  that  he  had  never  before  seen  such 
a  collection  of  depressed  looking  individuals;  they  were 
muscular  enough,  but  there  was  something  in  their  faces, 
their  movements  and  their  attitude,  that  told  a  tale  of 
spirits  broken  to  servitude  by  terror. 

The  four  gun-bearers  and  the  headman  were  very 
different.  The  headman  was  a  Zappo  Zap,  a  ferocious 
looking  nigger,  fez-tipped,  who  could  speak  twenty  words 
of  French,  and  who  was  nicknamed  Felix.  The  gun- 
bearers  were  recruited  from  the  "soldiers"  of  the 
state  by  special  leave  from  headquarters. 

Adams  looked  with  astonishment  at  the  immense 
amount  of  luggage  they  were  bringing.  "Chop  boxes," 
such  as  are  used  on  the  east  coast,  contained  stores; 
two  big  tents,  a  couple  of  "Roorkee"  chairs,  folding-beds 
and  tables,  cork  mattresses,  cooking  utensils,  made  up 
the  pile,  to  say  nothing  of  the  guns  which  had  just  been 
taken  from  their  cases. 

"What  did  you  bring  this  thing  for?"  asked  Berselius, 
pointing  to  Adams's  elephant  gun,  which  the  Zappo  Zap 
headman  was  just  stripping  from  its  covering. 

"To  shoot  with,"  said  Adams,  laughing. 


60  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Berselius  looked  at  the  big  man  handling  the  big  gun, 
and  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Well,  bring  it,"  said  he;  "but  I  don't  envy  your  gun- 
bearers." 

But  Felix,  the  headman,  did  not  seem  of  the  same 
opinion.  The  enormous  rifle  evidently  appealed  to  his 
ferocious  heart.  It  was  a  god-gun  this,  and  no  mistake, 
and  its  lustre  evidently  spread  to  Adams,  the  owner  of  it. 

Felix  was  a  very  big  man,  almost  as  big  as  Adams: 
a  member  of  the  great  cannibal  fighting  tribe  of  Zappo 
Zaps,  he  had  followed  Verhaeren,  who  had  once  held  a 
post  in  the  Bena  Pianga  country,  to  Yandjali;  he  had  a 
sort  of  attachment  for  Verhaeren,  which  showed  that  he 
possessed  some  sort  of  heart.  All  the  Zappo  Zaps  have 
been  enrolled  by  the  Congo  Government  as  "soldiers"; 
they  have  a  bad  name  and  cause  a  lot  of  heart-searching 
to  the  Brussels  administration,  for  when  they  are  used  in 
punitive  expeditions  to  burn  villages  of  recalcitrant 
rubber-getters,  they,  to  use  a  local  expression,  "will  eat 
when  they  have  killed."  When  they  are  used  en  masse, 
the  old  cannibal  instinct  breaks  out;  when  the  killing  is 
over  they  go  for  the  killed,  furious  as  dogs  over  bones. 
God  help  the  man  who  would  come  between  them  and 
their  food! 

Of  these  men  Felix  was  a  fine  specimen.  A  nature 
man,  ever  ready  to  slay,  and  cruel  as  Death.  A  man 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

If  Felix  had  possessed  a  wife,  he  and  she  might  have 
stood  for  the  man  and  woman  mentioned  by  Thenard 
in  his  lecture. 


YANDJALI  61 

The  basic  man  and  woman  in  whose  dim  brains  Deter- 
mination had  begun  to  work,  sketching  the  vague  line  on 
either  side  of  which  lies  the  Right  and  Left  of  moral 
action. 

A  true  savage,  never  to  be  really  civilized.  For  it  is 
the  fate  of  the  savage  that  he  will  never  become  one  of  us. 
Do  what  you  will  and  pray  how  you  will,  you  will  never 
make  up  for  the  million  years  that  have  passed  him  by, 
the  million  years  during  which  the  dim  sketch  which  is 
the  basis  of  all  ethics  has  lain  in  his  brain  undeveloped, 
or  developed  only  into  a  few  fantastic  and  abortive  God 
shapes  and  devil  shapes. 

He  will  never  become  one  of  us.  Extraordinary  para- 
dox —  he  never  can  become  a  Leopold  or  a  Felix  Fuchs ! 

Berselius  disbanded  the  porters  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  and  he  and  his  companions  began  a  round  of  the 
station.  Verhaeren,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  led  the  way. 

He  opened  the  door  of  a  go-down,  and  Adams  in  the 
dim  light,  saw  bale  upon  bale  of  stuff;  gum  copal  it  proved 
to  be,  for  Yandjali  tapped  a  huge  district  where  this  stuff 
is  found,  and  which  lies  forty  miles  to  the  south.  There 
was  also  cassava  in  large  quantities,  and  the  place  had  a 
heady  smell,  as  if  fermentation  were  going  on  amidst  the 
bales. 

Verhaeren  shut  the  door  and  led  on  till,  rounding  a 
corner,  a  puff  of  hot  air  brought  a  stench  which  caused 
Adams  to  choke  and  spit. 

Verhaeren  laughed. 

It  was  the  Hostage  House  that  sent  its  poisonous 
breath  to  meet  them. 


62  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

A  native  corporal  and  two  soldiers  stood  at  the  palisade 
which  circled  the  Hostage  House.  The  women  and 
children  had  just  been  driven  back  from  the  fields  where 
they  had  been  digging  and  weeding,  and  they  had  been 
served  with  their  wretched  dinners.  They  were  eating 
these  scraps  of  food  like  animals,  some  in  the  sun  amidst 
the  tufts  of  grass  and  mounds  of  ordure  in  the  little  yard, 
some  in  the  shadow  of  the  house. 

There  were  old,  old  women  like  shrivelled  monkeys; 
girls  of  twelve  and  fifteen,  some  almost  comely; 
middle-aged  women,  women  about  to  become  mothers, 
and  a  woman  who  had  become  a  mother  during  the  past 
night  lying  there  in  the  shelter  of  the  Hostage  House. 
There  were  little  pot-bellied  nigger  children,  tiny  black 
dots,  who  had  to  do  their  bit  of  work  in  the  fields  with 
the  others;  and  when  the  strangers  appeared  and  looked 
over  the  rail,  these  folk  set  up  a  crying  and  chattering, 
and  ran  about  distractedly,  not  knowing  what  new  thing 
was  in  store  for  them.  They  were  the  female  folk  and 
children  of  a  village,  ten  miles  away  south;  they  were 
here  as  "hostages,"  because  the  village  had  not  produced 
its  full  tale  of  cassava.  They  had  been  here  over  a  month. 

The  soldiers  laughed,  and  struck  with  the  butts  of 
their  rifles  on  the  palisading,  as  if  to  increase  the  confusion. 
Adams  noticed  that  the  young  girls  and  women  were  of 
all  the  terrified  crowd  seemingly  the  most  terrified.  He 
did  not  know  the  reason;  he  could  not  even  guess  it.  A 
good  man  himself,  and  believing  in  a  God  in  heaven,  he 
could  not  guess  the  truth.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  reason 
of  these  women's  terror,  and  he  looked  with  disgust 


YANDJALI  63 

at  the  scene  Before  him,  not  entirely  comprehending. 
Those  creatures,  so  filthy,  so  animal-like,  created  in  his 
mind  such  abhorrence  that  he  forgot  to  make  allow- 
ances for  the  fact  that  they  were  penned  like  swine,  and 
that  perchance  in  their  own  native  state,  free  in  their  own 
villages,  they  might  be  cleaner  and  less  revolting.  He 
could  not  hear  the  dismal  cry  of  the  "Congo  niggers," 
who  of  all  people  on  the  earth  are  the  most  miserable,  the 
most  abused,  the  most  sorrow-stricken,  the  most  dumb. 
He  did  not  know  that  he  was  looking  at  one  of  the  filthy 
acts  in  the  great  drama  that  a  hundred  years  hence  will 
be  read  with  horror  by  a  more  enlightened  world. 

They  turned  from  the  degrading  sight  and  went  back 
to  Verhaeren's  house  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   VOICE   OF   THE   CONGO    FOREST 

JUST  after  daybreak  next  morning   the   expedition 
started. 

Berselius,  Adams,  the  gun-bearers  and  Felix 
headed  the  line;  a  long  way  after  came  the  porters  and 
their  loads,  shepherded  by  half  a  dozen  soldiers  of  the 
state  specially  hired  for  the  business. 

Before  they  had  gone  a  mile  on  their  route  the  sun 
was  blazing  strongly,  sharp  bird-calls  came  from  the 
trees,  and  from  the  porters  tramping  under  their  loads 
a  hum  like  the  hum  of  an  awakened  beehive.  These 
people  will  talk  and  chatter  when  the  sun  rises;  club  them, 
or  threaten  them,  or  load  them  with  burdens  as  much 
as  you  please,  the  old  instinct  of  the  birds  and  beasts 
remains. 

At  first  the  way  led  through  cassava  and  manioc  fields 
and  past  clumps  of  palms;  then,  all  at  once,  and  like 
plunging  under  a  green  veil  or  into  the  heart  of  a  green 
wave,  they  entered  the  forest. 

The  night  chill  was  just  leaving  the  forest,  the  great 
green  gloom,  festooned  with  fantastic  rope-like  ten- 
drils, was  drinking  the  sunlight  with  a  million  tongues; 
you  could  hear  the  rustle  and  snap  of  branches  straight- 

64 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CONGO  FOREST       65 

ening  themselves  and  sighing  toward  heaven  after  the 
long,  damp,  chilly  night.  The  tropical  forest  at  day- 
break flings  its  arms  up  to  the  sun  as  if  to  embrace  him, 
and  all  the  teeming  life  it  holds  gives  tongue.  Flights  of 
coloured  and  extraordinary  birds  rise  like  smoke  wreaths 
from  the  steaming  leaves,  and  the  drone  of  a  million, 
million  insects  from  the  sonorous  depths  comes  like  the 
sound  of  life  in  ferment. 

The  river  lay  a  few  miles  to  their  left,  and  faintly 
from  it.  muffled  by  the  trees,  they  could  hear  the  shrill 
whistling  of  the  river  steamboat.  It  was  like  the  "good- 
bye" of  civilization. 

The  road  they  were  pursuing  through  the  forest  was 
just  a  dim  track  beaten  down  by  the  feet  of  the  copal 
and  cassava  gatherers  bearing  their  loads  to  Yandjali. 
Here  and  there  the  forest  thinned  out  and  a  riot  of 
umbrella  thorns,  vicious,  sword-like  grass  and  tall, 
dull  purple  flowers,  like  hollyhocks  made  a  scrub  that 
choked  the  way  and  tangled  the  foot;  then  the  trees 
would  thicken  up,  and  with  the  green  gloom  of  a 
mighty  wave  the  forest  would  fall  upon  the  travellers 
and  swallow  them  up. 

Adams,  tramping  beside  Berselius,  tried  vainly  to 
analyze  the  extraordinary  and  new  sensations  to  which 
this  place  gave  birth  in  him. 

The  forest  had  taken  him.  It  seemed  to  him,  on 
entering  it,  that  he  had  died  to  all  the  things  he  had 
ever  known.  At  Yandjali  he  had  felt  himself  in  a  foreign 
country,  but  still  in  touch  with  Europe  and  the  past; 
a  mile  deep  in  the  forest  and  Yandjali  itself,  savage  as 


66  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

it  was,  seemed  part  of  the  civilization  and  the  life  he  had 
left  behind  him. 

The  forests  of  the  old  world  may  be  vast,  but  their  trees 
are  familiar.  One  may  lose  one's  direction,  but  one  can 
never  lose  oneself  amidst  the  friendly  pines,  the  beeches,  the 
oaks,  whose  forms  have  been  known  to  us  from  childhood. 

But  here,  where  the  beard-moss  hangs  from  unknown 
trees,  as  we  tramp  through  the  sweltering  sap-scented 
gloom,  we  feel  ourselves  not  in  a  forest  but  under  a  cover. 

There  is  nothing  of  the  perfume  of  the  pine,  nothing 
of  the  breeze  in  the  branches,  nothing  of  the  beauty  of 
the  forest  twilight  here.  We  are  in  a  great  green  room, 
festooned  with  vines  and  tendrils  and  hung  about  with 
leaves.  Nothing  is  beautiful  here,  but  everything  is 
curious.  It  is  a  curiosity  shop,  where  one  pays  with 
the  sweat  of  one's  brow,  with  the  languor  of  one's  body, 
and  the  remembrance  of  one's  past,  for  the  sight  of  an 
orchid  shaped  like  a  bird,  or  a  flower  shaped  like  a  jug, 
or  a  bird  whose  flight  is  a  flash  of  sapphire  dust. 

A  great  green  room,  where  echo  sounds  of  things 
unknown. 

You  can  see  nothing  but  the  foliage,  and  the  tree  boles 
just  around,  yet  the  place  is  full  of  life  and  war  and  danger. 

That  crash  followed  by  the  shrieking  of  birds — you 
cannot  tell  whether  it  is  half  a  mile  away  or  quite  close,  or 
to  the  right,  or  to  the  left,  or  whether  it  is  caused  by  a 
branch  torn  from  a  tree  by  some  huge  hand,  or  a  tree 
a  hundred  years  old  felled  at  last  by  Time. 

Time  is  the  woodman  of  the  Congo  forests.  Nobody 
else  could  do  the  work,  and  he  works  in  his  own  lazy 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CONGO  FOREST       67 

fashion,  leaving  things  to  right  themselves  and  find  their 
own  salvation. 

Just  as  there  is  eternal  war  to  the  death  between  the 
beasts  of  this  jungle,  so  there  is  war  to  the  death  between 
the  trees,  the  vines,  and  the  weeds.  A  frightful  battle 
between  the  vegetable  things  is  going  on;  we  scarcely 
recognize  it,  because  the  processes  are  so  slow,  but  if 
five  years  of  the  jungle  could  be  photographed  week  by 
week,  and  the  whole  series  be  run  rapidly  off  on  some 
huge  cinematograph  machine,  you  would  see  a  heaving 
and  rending  struggle  for  existence,  vegetation  fed  by  the 
roaring  tropical  rains  rising  like  a  giant  and  flinging 
itself  on  the  vegetation  of  yesterday;  vines  lengthening 
like  snakes,  tree  felling  tree,  and  weed  choking  weed. 

Even  in  the  quietude  of  a  moment,  standing  and 
looking  before  one  at  the  moss-bearded  trees  and  the 
python-like  loops  of  the  lianas,  one  can  see  the  struggle 
crystallized,  just  as  in  the  still  marble  of  the  Laocoon  one 
sees  the  struggle  of  life  with  death. 

In  this  place  which  covers  an  unthinkable  area  of 
the  earth,  a  vast  population  has  dwelt  since  the  begin- 
ning of  time.  Think  of  it.  Shut  off  from  the  world 
which  has  progressed  toward  civilization,  alone  with 
the  beasts  and  the  trees,  they  have  lived  here  without  a 
guide  and  without  a  God.  The  instinct  which  teaches 
the  birds  to  build  nests  taught  them  to  build  huts;  the 
herd -instinct  drove  them  into  tribes. 

Then,  ages  ago,  before  Christ  was  crucified,  before 
Moses  was  born,  began  the  terrible  and  pathetic  attempt 
of  a  predamned  people  to  raise  their  heads  and  walk 


68  THE  POOLS  OP  SILENCE 

erect.  The  first  lifting  of  purblind  eyes  destined  never 
to  see  even  the  face  of  Art. 

Yet  there  was  a  germ  of  civilization  amongst  them. 
They  had  villages  and  vague  laws  and  art  of  a  sort; 
the  ferocious  tribes  drew  to  one  side,  hunting  beasts 
and  warring  with  each  other,  and  the  others,  the  milder 
and  kindlier  tribes,  led  their  own  comparatively  quiet 
life;  and  Mohammed  was  born  somewhere  in  the  unknown 
North,  and  they  knew  nothing  of  the  fact  till  the  Arab 
slavers  raided  them,  and  robbed  them  of  men  and  women 
and  children,  just  as  boys  rob  an  orchard. 

But  the  birth  of  Christ  and  the  foundation  of  Chris- 
tendom was  the  event  which  in  far  distant  years  was 
destined  to  be  this  unhappy  people's  last  undoing. 

They  had  known  the  beasts  of  the  forests,  the  storms, 
the  rains,  tHte^Arab  raiders,  but  Fate  had  reserved  a  new 
thing  for  them  to  know.  The  Christians.  Alas!  that 
one  should  have  to  say  it,  but  here  the  fact  is,  that  white 
men,  Christian  men,  have  taken  these  people,  have  drawn 
under  the  banner  of  Christianity  and  under  Christian 
pay  all  the  warlike  tribes,  armed  them,  and  set  them  as 
task-masters  over  the  humble  and  meek.  And  never 
in  the  history  of  the  world  has  such  a  state  of  servitude 
been  known  as  at  present  exists  in  the  country  of  this 
forlorn  people. 

They  had  been  marching  some  three  hours  when, 
from  ahead  came  a  sound  as  of  some  huge  animal  approach- 
ing. Berselius  half  turned  to  his  gun-bearer  for  his  rifle, 
but  Felix  reassured  him. 

"Cassava  bearers,"  said  Felix. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CONGO  FOREST      69 

It  was,  in  fact,  a  crowd  of  natives;  some  thirty  or 
forty,  bearing  loads  of  Kwanga  (cassava  cakes)  to  Yand- 
jali.  They  were  coming  along  the  forest  path  in  single 
file,  their  burdens  on  their  heads,  and  when  the  leaders 
saw  the  white  men  they  stopped  dead.  A  great  chat- 
tering broke  out.  One  could  hear  it  going  back  all 
along  the  unseen  line,  a  rattlesnake  of  sound.  Then 
Felix  called  out  to  them;  the  gun-bearers  and  the 
white  men  stood  aside,  and  the  cassava  bearers,  taking 
heart,  advanced. 

They  were  heavily  laden,  for  most  of  them  had  from 
ten  to  twenty  Kwanga  on  their  heads,  and  besides  this 
burden  —  they  were  mostly  women  —  several  of  them 
had  babies  slung  on  their  backs. 

These  people  belonged  to  a  village  which  lay  within 
Verhaeren's  district.  The  tax  laid  on  this  village  was 
three  hundred  cakes  of  cassava  to  be  delivered  at  Yand- 
jali  every  eight  days. 

The  people  of  this  village  were  a  lazy  lot,  and  if  you 
have  ever  collected  taxes  in  England,  you  can  fancy  the 
trouble  of  making  such  people  —  savages  living  in  a 
tropical  forest,  who  have  no  count  of  time  and  scarcely 
an  idea  of  numbers  —  pay  up. 

Especially  when  one  takes  into  consideration  the  fact 
that  to  produce  three  hundred  cakes  of  cassava  every 
eight  days,  the  whole  village  must  work  literally  like  a 
beehive,  the  men  gathering  and  the  women  grinding  the 
stuff  from  dawn  till  dark. 

Only  by  the  heaviest  penalties  could  such  a  desir- 
able state  of  things  be  brought  about,  and  the  heavier 


70  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

and  sharper  the  punishments  inflicted  at  any  one  time, 
the  easier  was  it  for  Verhaeren  to  work  these  people. 

Adams  watched  the  cassava  bearers  as  they  passed 
at  a  trot.  They  went  by  like  automatic  figures,  without 
raising  their  eyes  from  the  ground.  There  were  some 
old  women  amongst  them  who  looked  more  like  shrivelled 
monkeys  than  human  beings;  extraordinary  anatomical 
specimens,  whose  muscles,  working  as  they  ran,  were  as 
visible  as  though  no  skin  covered  them.  There  were 
young  women,  young  children,  and  women  far  advanced 
in  pregnancy;  and  they  all  went  by  like  automatic  figures, 
clockwork  marionettes. 

It  was  a  pitiable  spectacle  enough,  these  laden  creatures, 
mute  looking  as  dumb  beasts;  but  there  was  nothing 
especially  to  shock  the  eye  of  the  European,  for  it  is  the 
long-prepared  treason  against  this  people,  devised  and 
carried  out  by  nature,  that  their  black  mask  covers  a 
multitude  of  other  people's  sins  and  their  own  untold 
sufferings. 

Had  they  been  white,  the  despairing  look,  the  sunken 
eyes,  the  hundred  signs  that  tell  of  suffering  and  slavery 
would  have  been  visible,  would  have  appealed  to  the  heart; 
but  the  black  mass  could  not  express  these  things  fully. 
They  were  niggers,  uglier  looking  and  more  depressed 
looking  than  other  niggers  —  that  was  all. 

And  so  Adams  passed  on,  without  knowing  what  he 
had  seen  and  the  only  impression  the  sight  made  on  his 
mind  was  one  of  disgust. 

One  fact  his  professional  eye  noticed  as  the  crowd 
passed  by.  Four  of  the  women  had  lost  their  left  hands. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CONGO  FOREST      71 

The  hands  had  been  amputated  just  above  the  wrist 
in  three  cases,  and  one  woman  had  suffered  amputation 
at  the  middle  of  the  forearm. 

He  spoke  of  this  to  Berselius,  who  did  not  seem  to  hear 
his  remark. 

At  noon  they  halted  for  a  three  hours'  rest,  and  then 
pushed  on,  camping  for  the  night,  after  a  twenty-five 
miles'  journey,  in  a  break  of  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BIG   GAME 

JUST  as  going  along  the  coast   by  Pondoland  one 
sees  English  park  scenery  running  down  to  the 
very  sea  edge,  so  the  Congo  has  its  surprises  in 
strips  of  country  that  might,  as  far  as  appearance  goes, 
have  been  cut  out  of  Europe  and  planted  here. 

This  glade  which  Felix  had  chosen  for  a  camping 
place  was  strewn  with  rough  grass  and  studded  here  and 
there  with  what  at  first  sight  seemed  apple  trees:  they 
were  in  reality  thorns. 

The  camp  was  pitched  and  the  fires  lit  on  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  and  then  Berselius  proceeded  to  take  tale 
of  his  people  and  found  one  missing.  One  of  the  cook 
boys  had  dropped  behind  and  vanished.  He  had  been 
lame  shortly  after  the  start.  The  soldiers  had  not  seen 
him  drop  behind,  but  the  porters  had. 

"How  many  miles  away  was  it?"  asked  Berselius 
of  the  collected  porters. 

"Nkoto,  nkoto  (Very  many,  very  many),"  the  answer 
came  in  a  chorus,  for  a  group  of  savages,  if  they  have 
the  same  idea  in  common,  will  all  shout  together  in 
response  to  an  answer,  like  one  man. 

"Why  had  they  not  told?" 

72 


BIG  GAME  73 

"We  did  not  know,"  came  the  irrelevant  answer  in 
chorus. 

Berselius  knew  quite  well  that  they  had  not  told 
simply  from  heedlessness  and  want  of  initiative.  He  would 
have  flogged  the  whole  lot  soundly,  but  he  wanted  them 
fresh  for  the  morrow's  work.  Cutting  down  their  rations 
would  but  weaken  them,  and  as  for  threatening  to  dock 
their  pay,  such  a  threat  has  no  effect  on  a  savage. 

"Look!"  said  Berselius. 

He  had  just  dismissed  the  porters  with  a  reprimand 
when  his  keen  eye  caught  sight  of  something  far  up  the 
glade.  It  wanted  an  hour  of  sunset. 

Adams,  following  the  direction  in  which  Berselius 
was  gazing,  saw,  a  great  distance  off,  to  judge  by  the 
diminishing  size  of  the  thorn  trees,  a  form  that  made 
his  heart  to  leap  in  him. 

Massive  and  motionless,  a  great  creature  stood  humped 
in  the  level  light;  the  twin  horns  back-curving  and  sil- 
houetted against  the  sky  told  him  at  once  what  it  was. 

"Bull  rhinoceros,"  said  Berselius.  "Been  lying  up 
in  the  thick  stuff  all  day;  come  out  to  feed."  He  made 
a  sign  to  Felix  who,  knowing  exactly  what  was  wanted, 
dived  into  the  tent  and  came  back  with  a  .400  cordite 
rifle  and  Adams's  elephant  gun. 

"Come,"  said  Berselius,  "the  brute  is  evidently  think- 
ing. They  stay  like  that  for  an  hour  sometimes.  If 
we  have  any  luck,  we  may  get  a  shot  sideways  before  he 
moves.  There  's  not  a  breath  of  wind." 

They  started,  Felix  following  with  the  guns. 

"I    would    not    bother    about    him,"    said    Berselius, 


74  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"only  the  meat  will  be  useful,  and  it  will  be  an  experience 
for  you.  You  will  take  first  shot,  and,  if  he  charges,  aim 
just  behind  the  shoulder — that  's  the  spot  for  a  rhino  if 
you  can  reach  it;  for  other  animals  aim  at  the  neck,  no 
matter  what  animal  it  is,  or  whether  it  is  a  lion  or  a 
buck;  the  neck  shot  is  the  knock-out  blow.  I  have  seen 
a  lion  shot  through  the  heart  travel  fifty  yards  and 
kill  a  man;  had  he  been  struck  in  the  neck  he  would 
have  fallen  in  his  tracks." 

"Cow,"  said  Felix  from  behind. 

Out  of  the  thick  stuff  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  another 
form  had  broken.  She  was  scarcely  smaller  than  the 
bull,  but  the  horns  were  shorter;  she  was  paler  in  colour, 
too,  and  showed  up  not  nearly  so  well.  Then  she  van- 
ished into  the  thick  stuff,  but  the  bull  remained  standing, 
immovable  as  though  he  were  made  of  cast  iron,  and  the 
two  awful  horns,  now  more  distinct,  cut  the  background 
like  scimitars. 

The  rhinoceros,  like  the  aboriginal  native  of  the  Congo, 
has  come  straight  down  from  pre-Adamite  days  almost 
without  change.  He  is  half  blind  now;  he  can  scarcely 
see  twenty  yards,  he  is  still  moving  in  the  night  of  the 
ancient  world,  and  the  smell  of  a  man  excites  the  wildest 
apprehension  in  his  vestige  of  a  mind.  He  scents  you, 
flings  his  heavy  head  from  side  to  side,  and  then  to  all 
appearances  he  charges  you. 

Nothing  could  appear  more  wicked,  ferocious,  and 
full  of  deadly  intent  than  this  charge;  yet,  in  reality,  the 
unfortunate  brute  is  not  seeking  you  at  all,  but  running 
away  from  you;  for  the  rhino  when  running  away  always 


BIG  GAME  75 

runs  in  the  direction  from  which  the  wind  is  blowing. 
You  are  in  that  direction,  else  your  scent  could  not  reach 
him;  as  your  scent  grows  stronger  and  stronger,  the  more 
alarmed  does  he  become  and  the  quicker  he  runs.  Now 
he  sights  you,  or  you  fire.  If  you  miss,  God  help  you, 
for  he  charges  the  flash  with  all  his  fright  suddenly 
changed  to  fury. 

They  had  got  within  four  hundred  yards  from  the 
brute  when  a  faint  puff  of  wind  stirred  the  grass,  and 
instantly  the  rhino  shifted  his  position. 

"He  's  got  our  scent,"  said  Berselius,  taking  the  cor- 
dite rifle  from  Felix,  who  handed  his  gun  also  to  Adams. 
"He  's  got  it  strong.  We  will  wait  for  him  here." 

The  rhino,  after  a  few  uneasy  movements,  began  to 
"run  about."  One  could  see  that  the  brute  was  ill  at 
ease;  he  went  in  a  half-circle,  and  then,  the  wind  increas- 
ing, and  bringing  the  scent  strong,  he  headed  straight 
for  Berselius  and  his  companions,  and  charged. 

The  sound  of  him  coming  was  like  the  sound  of  a  great 
drum  beaten  by  a  lunatic. 

"Don't  fire  till  I  give  the  word,"  cried  Berselius, 
"and  aim  just  behind  the  shoulder." 

Adams,  who  was  to  the  left  of  the  charging  beast, 
raised  the  rifle  and  looked  down  the  sights.  He  knew 
that  if  he  missed,  the  brute  would  charge  the  flash  and 
be  on  him  perhaps  before  he  could  give  it  the  second 
barrel. 

It  was  exactly  like  standing  before  an  advancing 
express  engine.  An  engine,  moreover,  that  had  the  power 
of  leaving  the  metals  to  chase  you  should  you  not  derail  it. 


76  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Would  Berselius  never  speak!  Berselius  all  the  time 
was  glancing  from  the  rhino  to  Adams. 

"Fire!" 

The  ear-blasting  report  of  the  elephant  gun  echoed 
from  the  forest,  and  the  rhino,  just  as  if  he  had  been  tripped 
by  an  invisible  wire  fence,  fell,  tearing  up  the  ground  and 
squealing  like  a  pig. 

"Good,"  said  Berselius. 

Adams  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  forehead  with  the 
back  of  his  hand.  He  had  never  gone  through  a  moment 
of  more  deadly  nerve  tension. 

He  was  moving  toward  his  quarry,  now  stretched 
stiff  and  stark,  when  he  was  arrested  by  Felix. 

"Cow,"  said  Felix  again. 

The  cow  had  broken  cover  at  the  report  of  the  gun 
and  had  got  their  wind. 

Just  as  two  automatic  figures  of  the  same  make  will, 
when  wound   up,   and   touched   off,   perform  the  same 
actions,  the  cow  did  exactly  what  the  bull  had  done  — 
ran  about  in  a  fierce  and  distressed  manner  and  then 
charged  right  in  the  eye  of  the  wind. 

"Mine,"  said  Berselius,  and  he  went  forward  twenty 
paces  to  meet  her. 

Berselius,  chilling  and  aloof  to  the  point  of  mysterious- 
ness,  had,  since  the  very  starting  of  the  expedition,  shown 
little  of  his  true  character  to  his  companion.  What  he 
had  shown  up  to  this  had  not  lowered  Adams's  respect 
for  him. 

Self-restraint  seemed  the  mainspring  of  that  com- 
manding force  which  this  strange  man  exercised.  His 


BIG  GAME  77 

reprimand  to  the  porters  for  the  loss  of  the  boy,  expressed 
in  a  few  quiet  words,  had  sent  them  shivering  to  their 
places,  cowed  and  dumb.  Animal  instinct  seemed  to  tell 
them  of  a  terrible  animal  which  the  self-restraint  of  that 
quiet-looking  little  man,  with  the  pointed  beard,  alone 
prevented  from  breaking  upon  them. 

Berselius  had  allowed  the  bull  to  approach  to  a  little 
over  a  hundred  yards  before  letting  Adams  fire.  He 
had  gauged  the  American's  nerve  to  a  nicety  and  his 
power  of  self-restraint,  and  he  knew  that  beyond  the 
hundred -yard  limit  he  dared  not  trust  them;  for  no  man 
born  of  woman  who  has  not  had  a  good  experience  of 
big  game  can  stand  up  to  a  charging  rhinoceros  and 
take  certain  aim  when  the  hundred-yard  limit  has 
been  passed. 

The  thunderous  drumming  of  the  oncoming  brute 
echoed  from  the  forest.  Had  its  head  been  a  feather- 
pillow  the  impact  of  the  three  tons  of  solid  flesh  mov- 
ing behind  it  would  have  been  certain  death;  but  the 
head  was  an  instrument  of  destruction,  devised  when  the 
megatherium  walked  the  world,  and  the  long  raking  horn 
would  have  ripped  up  an  elephant  as  easily  as  a  sharp 
penknife  rips  up  a  rabbit. 

Before  this  thing,  and  to  the  right  of  it,  rifle  in 
hand,  stood  Berselius.  He  did  not  even  lift  the  gun 
to  his  shoulder  till  the  hundred-yard  limit  was 
passed,  and  then  he  hung  on  his  aim  so  horribly  that 
Adams  felt  the  sweat-drops  running  on  his  face  like 
ants,  and  even  Felix  swallowed  like  a  man  who  is 
'  trying  to  choke  down  something  nauseous.  It  was  a 


78  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

magnificent  exhibition  of  daring  and  self-restraint  and 
cool  assurance. 

At  twenty-five  yards  or  a  little  under,  the  cordite  rang 
out.  The  brute  seemed  to  trip,  just  as  the  other  had  done, 
over  some  invisible  taut-stretched  wire,  and  skidding  with 
its  own  impetus,  squealing,  striking  out  and  tearing  up 
the  grass,  it  came  right  up  to  Berselius's  feet  before  stif- 
fening in  death.  Like  the  great  automaton  it  was,  it  had 
scented  the  human  beings  just  as  the  bull  had  scented 
them,  "fussed"  just  as  he  had  fussed,  charged  as  he  had 
charged,  and  died  as  he  had  died. 

And  now  from  the  camp  rose  a  great  outcry,  "Nyama, 
nyama!  (Meat,  meat!)."  From  the  soldiers,  from  the 
gun-bearers,  from  the  porters  it  came.  There  were  no 
longer  soldiers,  or  gun-bearers,  or  porters;  every  dis- 
tinction was  forgotten;  they  were  all  savages,  voicing 
the  eternal  cry  of  the  jungle,  "Nyama,  nyama!  (Meat, 
meat!)." 

In  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset  the  two  gigantic  forms 
lay  stretched  forever  in  death.  They  lay  as  they  had 
composed  themselves  after  that  long  stiff  stretch  which 
every  animal  takes  before  settling  itself  for  eternal  sleep; 
and  Adams  stood  looking  at  the  great  grinning  masks 
tipped  with  the  murderous  horns,  whilst  Berselius,  with 
his  gun  butt  resting  on  his  boot,  stood  watching  with  a 
brooding  eye  as  the  porters  and  gun-bearers  swarmed  like 
ants  around  the  slain  animals  and  proceeded,  under  his 
direction,  to  cut  them  up.  Then  the  meat  was  brought 
into  camp  The  tails  and  the  best  parts  of  the  carcasses, 
including  the  kidneys,  were  reserved  for  the  white  men, 


BIG  GAME  79 

and  the  rations  from  the  rest  of  the  meat  were  served 
out;  but  a  dozen  porters  who  had  been  last  in  the  line, 
and  who  were  accountable  for  letting  the  boy  drop  behind, 
got  nothing. 

It  was  pitiable  to  see  their  faces.  But  they  deserved 
their  punishment,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  in  the 
middle  of  the  meat  distribution  the  missing  boy  limped 
into  camp.  He  had  a  thorn  half  an  inch  long  in  his  foot, 
which  Adams  extracted.  Then  the  camp  went  to  bed. 

Adams  in  his  tent  under  the  mosquito  net  slept  soundly 
and  heard  and  knew  nothing  of  the  incidents  of  the  night. 
Berselius  was  also  sleeping  soundly  when,  at  about  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  Felix  aroused  him. 

One  of  the  porters  had  been  caught  stealing  some 
of  the  meat  left  over  from  the  distribution  of  the  night 
before. 

The  extraordinary  thing  was  that  he  had  fed  well, 
not  being  one  of  the  proscribed.  He  had  stolen  from 
pure  greed. 

He  was  an  undersized  man,  a  weakling,  and  likely 
to  break  down  and  give  trouble  anyway.  His  crime 
was  great. 

Berselius  sent  Felix  to  his  tent  for  a  Mauser  pistol. 
Then  the  body  was  flung  into  the  forest  where  the 
roaring,  rasping  cry  of  a  leopard  was  splitting  the  dark. 


CHAPTER  X 

M' BASS  A 

SEVEN  days'  march  took  them  one  hundred  and 
twenty  miles  east  of  Yandjali  and  into  the  heart 
of  the  great  rubber  district  of  M'Bonga. 

Twenty  miles  a  day  ought  to  have  been  covered  on  an 
average,  but  they  had  delayed  here  and  there  to  shoot, 
and  the  extra  porters,  whose  duty  it  was  to  carry  the 
trophies,  were  already  in  requisition. 

It  had  been  forest  most  of  the  way,  but  forest  broken 
by  open  spaces;  they  had  crossed  two  great  swards  of 
park-like  country  where  the  antelope  herds  moved  like 
clouds,  marvellous  natural  preserves  that  might  have 
been  English  but  for  the  tropic  haze  and  heat  and  the 
great  n'sambya  trees  with  their  yellow  bell-like  blossoms, 
the  m'binas  with  their  bursts  of  scarlet  bloom,  the  tall 
feather-palms,  and  the  wild  papaws  of  the  adjoining 
woods. 

But  in  the  last  two  days  of  the  march  the  forest  had 
thickened  and  taken  a  more  sombre  note;  nothing  they 
had  come  upon  heretofore  had  been  quite  so  wild  as  this, 
so  luxuriant  and  tropical.  It  was  the  haunt  of  the  rubber 
vine,  that  mysterious  plant  which  requires  a  glass-house 
atmosphere  and  a  soil  especially  rich.  The  great  rubber 

80 


M'BASSA  81 

forest  of  M'Bonga,  thousands  of  square  miles  in  extent, 
is  really  composed  of  two  forests  joined  by  an  isthmus 
of  woods.  Dimly,  it  is  shaped  like  an  hourglass;  south 
of  the  constriction  where  the  two  forests  join  lies  the 
elephant  country  for  which  Berselius  was  making,  and 
Felix  had  led  them  so  craftily  and  well,  that  they  struck 
into  the  rubber  district  only  fifty  miles  from  the 
constriction. 

In  the  forest,  thirty  miles  from  the  elephant  ground, 
lies  the  Belgian  fort  M'Bassa.  They  were  making  for 
this  place  now,  which  was  to  be  the  base  from  which 
they  would  start  on  the  great  hunt. 

The  fort  of  M'Bassa  is  not  used  to-day  as  a  fort,  only 
as  a  collecting-place  for  rubber.  In  the  early  days  it 
was  a  very  necessary  entrenchment  for  the  Belgians,  as 
a  tribe  almost  as  warlike  as  the  Zappo  Zaps  terrorized 
the  districts;  but  the  people  of  this  tribe  have  long  been 
brought  under  the  blue  flag  with  the  white  star.  They 
are  now  "soldiers,"  and  their  savagery,  like  a  keen  tool, 
has  been  turned  to  good  account  by  the  Government. 

In  the  great  forest  of  M'Bonga  the  rubber  vines  are  not 
equally  distributed.  Large  areas  occur  in  which  they 
are  not  found;  only  in  the  most  desolate  places  do  they 
grow.  You  cannot  tame  and  prune  and  bring  the  rubber 
vine  into  subjection;  it  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
vineyard  and  the  field;  it  chooses  to  grow  alone. 

Everything  else  comes  to  its  harvest  with  a  joyous  face, 
but  the  rubber  vine,  like  a  dark  green  snake,  fearful  of 
death,  has  to  be  hunted  for. 

Even  in  the  areas  of  the  forest  which  it  frequents, 


82  THE  POOLS  OP  SILENCE 

it  is  only  to  be  found  in  patches,  so  the  harvesters  cannot 
go  in  a  body,  as  men  do  to  the  harvesting  of  the  corn,  or 
the  cotton,  or  the  grape;  they  have  to  break  up  into  small 
parties  and  these  again  subdivide,  leaving  a  single  indi- 
vidual here  and  there  where  the  vines  are  thickest.  He, 
entirely  alone,  at  the  mercy  of  the  evil  spirits  that  are  in 
his  imagination  and  the  beasts  that  are  in  the  forest, 
makes  a  rude  shelter  out  of  boughs  and  leaves,  and  sets 
to  work  making  incisions  in  the  vine  and  draining  them 
drop  by  drop  of  their  viscous  sap. 

Sometimes  he  sings  over  this  monotonous  work,  and 
in  the  long  rains  between  the  intervals  of  the  shower- 
bath  roarings  you  can  hear  the  ululations  of  these  folk 
through  the  drip  of  the  leaves,  and  at  night  the  spark- 
like  glimmer  of  their  fires  dots  the  reeking  gloom. 

These  are  the  conditions  of  the  rubber  collector's 
task,  and  it  is  not  a  task  that  ever  can  be  finished;  year 
in,  year  out,  it  never  ceases. 

These  woods  through  which  Felix  led  them  were  to 
the  woods  near  Yandjali  what  the  music  of  Beethoven 
is  to  the  music  of  Mozart. 

Immense  and  gloomy  symphonies.  The  trees  were 
huge,  and  groaned  beneath  the  weight  of  lianas  cable- 
thick.  At  times  they  had  to  burst  their  way  through 
the  veils  of  leaves  and  vines,  the  porters  losing  themselves 
and  calling  one  to  the  other,  and  the  head  of  the  expedition 
halting  till  the  stragglers  were  collected;  at  times  the 
ground  they  trod  on  was  like  grease  from  the  cast-down 
fruit  of  the  plantains  that  grew  here  enormous,  and  sod- 
den, and  dismal,  showering  their  fruit  in  such  quantities 


M'BASSA  83 

that  the  bush-pigs,  devour  as  they  might,  could  never 
dispose  of  it  all. 

On  some  of  the  trees,  like  huge  withered  leaves,  hung 
bats,  and  from  some  of  the  trees  the  beard-moss  hung 
yards  long,  and  of  a  spectral  gray;  the  very  weeds  trodden 
underfoot  were  sappy,  and  the  smell  of  their  squirting 
juice  mixed  itself  with  the  smell  of  decay. 

It  was  not  even  ground,  either;  the  whole  forest  would 
dip  down  into  an  unseen  valley;  you  felt  yourself  going 
down  hill,  down,  down,  and  then  you  knew  you  were  at 
the  bottom  of  a  sub-arboreal  valley  by  the  deeper  stag- 
nation of  the  air.  Open  spaces,  when  they  came,  showed 
little  sky,  and  they  were  less  open  spaces  than  rooms  in 
the  surrounding  prison. 

Felix  was  not  leading  them  through  the  uttermost 
depths  of  this  place;  he  was  following  the  vague  indica- 
tions of  a  road  by  which  the  rubber  from  M'Bassa  was 
carted  to  the  river. 

They  were  travelling  along  a  highway,  in  fact,  and  the 
dimmest  indication  of  a  track  where  other  men  have  been 
before  is  a  thing  which  robs  the  wilderness  of  much  of 
its  terror. 

The  loneliness  of  the  forest  beyond  track  or  way,  in 
those  vast  depths  where  the  rubbe-  Collectors  have  to  go 
alone,  I  leave  you  to  imagine. 

At  last,  at  noon,  on  the  third  day  of  their  journey  to 
this  place  they  struck  rising  ground  where  '.he  trees  fell 
away  till  no  trees  were  left,  and  the  blue  sky  of  heaven 
lay  above  their  heads,  and  before  them  on  the  highest 
point  of  the  rise,  Fort  M'Bass  i  burning  in  the  sun. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ANDREAS    MEEUS 

f  •  ^HE  Parthenon  in  all  its  glory  could  not  have 
looked  more  beautiful  to  the  returning  Greek  than 
this  half -ruined  fort  in  the  eyes  of  Adams. 

A  thing  built  by  the  hands  of  white  men  and  shone 
on  by  the  sun  —  what  could  be  more  acceptable  to  the 
eye  after  the  long,  long  tramp  through  the  heartbreaking 
forest ! 

The  fort  of  M'Bassa  was  quite  small;  the  surrounding 
walls  had  gone  to  decay,  but  the  "guest  house"  and  the 
office,  and  the  great  go-down  where  the  rubber  was 
stored,  were  in  good  repair  and  well  thatched. 

Outside  the  walls  were  a  number  of  wretched  hovels 
inhabited  by  the  "soldiers"  and  their  wives,  and  one 
of  these  soldiers,  a  tall  black,  with  the  eternal  red  fez 
on  his  head  and  a  rifle  slung  on  his  back,  was  the  first  to 
sight  the  coming  expedition,  and  to  notify  its  approach 
with  a  yell  that  bro^^ht  a  dozen  like  him  from  the  sun- 
baked hovels  and,  a  moment  later  from  the  office,  a  white 
man  in  a  pith  helmet,  who  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
across  the  Lalf-ruined  wall  at  the  newcomers,  and  then 
advanced  to  meet  them. 

He  was  a  middle-sized  man,  with  a  melancholy  face 

34 


ANDREAS  MEEUS  85 

that  showed  very  white  under  the  shadow  of  the  helmet; 
he  was  dressed  in  dingy  white  drill,  and  he  had  a  cigarette 
between  his  lips. 

He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  never  in  his  life  smiled, 
yet  his  face  was  not  an  unpleasant  face  altogether,  though 
there  was  much  in  it  to  give  the  observer  pause. 

His  voice  was  not  an  unpleasant  voice,  altogether,  yet 
there  was  that  in  it,  as  he  greeted  Berselius,  which  struck 
Adams  sharply  and  strangely;  for  the  voice  of  Andreas 
Meeus,  Chef  de  Poste  at  M'Bassa,  was  the  voice  of  a 
man  who  for  two  years  had  been  condemned  to  talk  the 
language  of  the  natives.  It  had  curious  inflections, 
hesitancies,  and  a  dulness  that  expressed  the  condition 
of  a  brain  condemned  for  two  years  to  think  the  thoughts 
of  the  natives  in  their  own  language. 

Just  as  the  voice  of  a  violin  expresses  the  condition 
of  the  violin,  so  does  the  voice  of  a  man  express  the  con- 
dition of  his  mind.  And  that  is  the  fact  that  will  strike 
you  most  if  you  travel  in  the  wilds  of  the  Congo  State  and 
talk  to  the  men  of  your  own  colour  who  are  condemned 
to  live  amongst  the  people. 

One  might  have  compared  Meeus's  voice  to  the  voice  of 
a  violin  —  a  violin  that  had  been  attacked  by  some  strange 
fungoid  growth  that  had  filled  its  interior  and  dulled 
the  sounding  board. 

He  had  been  apprised  a  month  before  of  the  coming 
of  Berselius's  expedition,  and  one  might  imagine  the  servil- 
ity which  this  man  would  show  to  the  all-powerful  Ber- 
selius, whose  hunting  expeditions  were  red-carpeted,  who 
was  hail-fellow-well-met  with  Leopold,  who,  by  lifting 


86  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

his  finger,  could  cause  Andreas  Meeus  to  be  dismissed 
from  his  post,  and  by  crooking  his  finger  cause  him  to  be 
raised  to  a  Commissionership. 

Yet  he  showed  no  servility  at  all.  He  had  left  servility 
behind  him,  just  as  he  had  left  pride,  just  as  he  had  left 
ambition,  patriotism,  country,  and  that  divine  something 
which  blossoms  into  love  of  wife  and  child. 

When  he  had  shaken  hands  with  Berselius  and  Adams, 
he  led  the  way  into  the  fort,  or  rather  into  the  enclosure 
surrounded  by  the  ruinous  mud  walls,  an  enclosure  of 
about  a  hundred  yards  square. 

On  the  right  of  the  quadrangle  stood  the  go-down, 
where  the  rubber  and  a  small  quantity  of  ivory  was  stored. 

In  the  centre  stood  the  misnamed  guest  house,  a 
large  mud  and  wattle  building,  with  a  veranda  gone 
to  decay. 

The  blinding  sun  shone  on  it  all,  showing  up  with  its 
fierce  light  the  true  and  appalling  desolation  of  the  place. 
There  was  not  one  thing  in  the  enclosure  upon  which 
the  eye  could  rest  with  thankfulness. 

Turning  from  the  enclosure  and  looking  across  the 
fort  wall  to  the  distance,  one  saw  a  world  as  far  from 
civilization  as  the  world  that  Romulus  looked  at  when  he 
gazed  across  the  wall  outlining  the  first  dim  sketch  of 
Rome. 

To  the  north,  forest;  to  the  south,  forest;  to  the  east, 
forest;  and  to  the  west,  eternal  and  illimitable  forest. 
Blazing  sun,  everlasting  haze  that  in  the  rainy  season 
would  become  mist  and  silence. 

In  the  storms  and  under  the  rains  the  great  rubber 


ANDREAS  MEEUS  87 

forest  of  M'Bonga  would  roar  like  a  reef-tormented  sea, 
but  on  a  day  like  this,  when,  gazing  from  the  high  ground 
of  the  fort,  the  eye  travelled  across  the  swelling  domes 
and  heat-stricken  valleys  of  foliage,  the  pale  green  of  the 
feather-palms,  the  sombre  green  of  the  n'sambyas,  to  the 
haze  that  veiled  all  things  beyond,  on  a  day  like  this, 
silence  gazed  at  one  Sphinx-like,  and  from  the  distance 
of  a  million  years.  Silence  that  had  brooded  upon  Africa 
before  Africa  had  a  name,  before  Pharaoh  was  born, 
before  Thebes  was  built. 

Meeus  led  the  way  into  the  guest  house,  which  con- 
tained only  two  rooms  —  rooms  spacious  enough,  but 
bare  of  everything  except  the  ordinary  necessities  of  life. 
In  the  living  room  there  was  a  table  of  white  deal-like 
wood  and  three  or  four  chairs  evidently  made  by  natives 
from  a  European  design.  A  leopard  skin,  badly  dried  and 
shrivelling  at  the  edges,  hung  on  one  wall,  presumably  as 
an  ornament;  on  another  wall  some  Congo  bows  and 
arrows  —  bows  with  enormously  thick  strings  and 
arrows  poisoned  so  skilfully  that  a  scratch  from  one  would 
kill  you,  though  they  had  been  hanging  there  for  many 
years.  They  were  trophies  of  the  early  days  when  Fort 
M'Bassa  was  really  a  fort,  and  from  those  woods  down 
there  clouds  of  soot-black  devils,  with  filed  teeth,  raided 
the  place,  only  to  be  swept  away  by  rifle  fire. 

There  was  no  picture  torn  from  an  illustrated  paper 
adorning  the  place,  as  in  Verhaeren's  abode,  but  on  a 
rudely  constructed  shelf  there  lay  just  the  same  stack  of 
"official  letters,"  some  of  these  two  years  old,  some  of 
last  month,  all  dealing  with  trade. 


88  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Meeus  brought  out  cigarettes  and  gin,  but  Berselius, 
safe  now  at  his  base  of  operations,  to  make  a  little  festival 
of  the  occasion  sent  to  the  stores,  which  his  porters  had 
deposited  in  the  go-down,  for  a  magnum  of  champagne. 
It  was  Cliquot,  and  as  Meeus  felt  the  glow  of  the  wine  in 
his  veins,  a  flush  came  into  his  hollow  cheeks  and  a  bright- 
ness into  his  dull  eyes;  forgotten  things  stirred  again  in 
his  memory,  with  the  shadows  of  people  he  had  known  — 
the  glitter  of  lamplit  streets  in  Brussels,  the  glare  of  the 
Cafe  de  Couronne  —  all  the  past,  such  as  it  was,  lay  in 
the  wine. 

Meeus  was  one  of  the  "unfortunate  men."  He  had 
held  a  small  clerkship  under  the  Belgian  Government, 
from  which  he  had  been  dismissed  through  a  fault  of 
his  own. 

This  was  five  years  ago.  fUp  to  his  dismissal  he  had 
led  the  peddling  and  sordid  life  that  a  small  government 
clerk  on  the  Continent  leads  if  he  has  nothing  to  save  him 
from  himself  and  from  his  fellows:  the  dry  rot  of  official 
life  had  left  him  useless  for  anything  but  official  life.  A 
sensualist  in  a  small  way,  he  enlarged  his  sphere  on  the 
day  of  his  dismissal,  when  he  found  himself  cut  off  from 
work  and  adrift  in  the  world,  with  five  hundred  francs  in 
his  pocket.  In  one  glorious  debauch,  which  lasted  a  week, 
he  spent  the  five  hundred  francs,  and  then  he  settled  down 
to  live  on  a  maiden  aunt. 

He  called  it  looking  for  work. 

She  lasted  for  a  year  and  nine  months,  and  then 
she  died,  and  her  annuity  died  with  her.  He  felt  her 
loss  deeply,  for  not  only  had  her  money  helped  to 


ANDREAS  MEEUS  89 

support  him,  but  she  was  his  only  real  friend,  and  he 
had  a  heart  in  those  days  that  seemed  so  far  distant 
from  him  now. 

'  Then  it  was  that  Poverty  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
explained  patiently  and  with  diagrams  the  hardness  of 
the  world,  the  atrocious  position  of  the  declasse,  who  has 
never  studied  the  art  of  roguery  so  as  to  make  a  living  by 
it,  and  the  utter  uselessness  as  friends  of  those  good 
fellows  who  sat  in  the  cafe's  and  walked  the  boulevards 
and  ogled  the  women. 

He  tramped  the  streets  of  Brussels,  at  first  in  seedy 
clothes  and  at  last  in  filth  and  horrible  rags.  A  relative 
came  to  his  assistance  with  two  hundred  francs;  he 
bought  himself  clothes  and  made  himself  respectable, 
but,  in  a  fortnight,  found  himself  relapsing  again,  sinking 
like  a  swimmer  whose  momentary  support  has  gone  to 
pieces. 

Just  as  the  waves  were  again  about  to  close  over  his 
benighted  head,  an  acquaintance  got  him  a  post  under 
Government.  Not  under  the  Belgian  but  the  Congo 
Government. 

Andreas  Meeus  was  exactly  the  type  of  man  this 
Government  required,  and  still  requires,  and  still  uses 
and  must  continue  to  use  as  long  as  the  infernal  machine 
which  it  has  invented  for  the  extraction  of  gold  from 
niggers  continues  to  work.  A  man,  that  is  to  say,  who 
has  eaten  orange-peel  picked  up  in  the  market-place; 
a  man  who  has  worn  out  his  friends  —  and  his  clothes. 
A  man  without  hope. 

One  would  think  for  the  work  in  hand  they  would 


90  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

choose  the  greatest  blackguards  possible:  convicts  con- 
victed of  the  worst  crimes  of  violence.  Not  at  all.  These 
men  would  be  for  one  thing  too  intractable;  for  another 
thing,  too  unstable,  and  for  another  thing  (strange  to  say), 
possessed  of  too  much  heart.  The  Congo  Government 
knows  its  work  far  too  well  for  that.  It  does  not  take  the 
murderer  or  the  violent  criminal  from  the  penitentiary 
to  do  its  work;  it  takes  from  the  streets  the  man  without 
hope.  The  educated  man  who  has  fallen,  the  man  who 
can  still  think. 

Meeus  went  to  Africa  just  as  a  man  goes  to  prison. 
He  hated  the  idea  of  going,  but  he  had  to  go,  or  stay  and 
starve.  He  was  stationed  three  months  at  Boma  and 
then  he  was  moved  to  a  post  on  the  Upper  Congo,  a  small 
and  easily  worked  post,  where  he  found  out  the  full  con- 
ditions of  his  new  servitude. 

This  post  had  to  do  with  what  they  call  in  the  jargon 
of  the  Congo  administration,  Forest  Exploitation.  Gum 
copal  and  wax  was  the  stuff  he  had  to  extract  from  the 
people  round  about. 

Here  he  found  himself  morally  in  the  clutches  of  that 
famous  and  infamous  proclamation  issued  from  Brussels 
on  the  twentieth  of  June,  1892,  by  Secretary  of  State 
Van  Estvelde. 

The  Bonus  Proclamation. 

According  to  the  terms  of  this  proclamation,  Meeus 
found  that  besides  his  pay  he  could  get  a  bonus  on  every 
kilo  of  wax  and  copal  he  could  extract  from  the  natives, 
and  that  the  cheaper  he  could  get  the  stuff  the  more  his 
bonus  would  be. 


ANDREAS  MEEUS  91 

Thus,  for  every  kilo  of  wax  or  copal  screwed  out  of  the 
natives  at  a  cost  of  five  centimes  or  less,  he  received  into 
his  pocket  a  bonus  of  fifteen  centimes,  that  is  to  say  the 
bonus  to  Meeus  was  three  times  what  the  natives  got;  if 
by  any  laxity  or  sense  of  justice,  the  cost  of  the  wax  or 
copal  rose  to  six  centimes  a  kilo,  Meeus  only  got  ten  cen- 
times bonus,  and  so  on. 

The  cheaper  he  got  the  stuff  the  more  he  was  paid 
for  it.  And  those  were  the  terms  on  which  he  had  to  trade 
with  the  natives. 

Then  there  were  the  taxes.  The  natives  had  to  bring 
in  huge  quantities  of  wax  and  copal  for  nothing,  just  as 
a  tax  owing  to  the  State,  a  tax  to  the  Government  that 
was  plundering  and  exploiting  them. 

Meeus,  who  had  a  spice  of  the  tradesman  in  him,  fell 
into  this  state  of  things  as  easily  as  a  billiard  ball  falls 
into  a  pocket  when  skilfully  directed. 

The  unfortunate  man  was  absolutely  a  billiard  ball 
in  the  hands  of  a  professional  player;  the  stroke  of  the 
cue  had  been  given  in  Belgium,  he  rolled  to  his  appointed 
post,  fell  into  it,  and  was  damned. 

His  fingers  became  crooked  and  a  dull  hunger  for 
money  filled  his  soul.  His  success  in  working  the  niggers 
was  so  great  that  he  was  moved  to  a  more  difficult  post 
at  higher  pay,  and  then  right  on  to  M'Bassa. 

He  was  not  naturally  a  cruel  man.  In  his  childhood 
he  had  been  fond  of  animals,  but  Matabiche,  the  god- 
devil  of  the  Congo,  changed  all  that. 

He  saw  nothing  extortionate  in  his  dealings,  nothing 
wrong  in  them.  When  things  were  going  well,  then  all 


92  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

was  well;  but  when  the  natives  resisted  his  charges  and 
taxes,  defrauding  him  of  his  bonus  and  lowering  him 
in  the  eyes  of  his  superiors,  then  Meeus  became  terrible. 

And  he  was  absolute  master. 

Away  here  in  the  lonely  fort,  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
M'Bonga  rubber  forest  that  was  now  speechless  as  a 
Sphinx,  now  roaring  at  him  like  a  sea  in  torment;  here 
in  the  endless  sunlight  of  the  dry  seasons  and  the  endless 
misery  of  the  rains,  Meeus  driven  in  upon  himself,  had 
time  to  think. 

There  is  no  prison  so  terrible  as  a  limitless  prison. 
Far  better  for  a  man  to  inhabit  a  cell  in  Dartmoor  than  a 
post  in  the  desert  of  the  forest.  The  walls  are  companion- 
able things,  but  there  is  no  companionship  in  distance. 

Meeus  knew  what  it  was  to  look  over  the  walls  of  the 
fort  and  watch  another  sun  setting  on  another  day,  and 
another  darkness  heralding  another  night.  He  knew 
what  it  was  to  watch  infinite  freedom  and  to  know  it  for 
his  captor  and  jailer.  He  knew  what  it  was  to  wake 
from  his  noonday  siesta  and  see  the  same  great  awful 
splash  of  sunlight  striking  the  same  old  space  of  arid  yard, 
where  the  empty  tomato  tin  lay  by  the  rotten  plantain 
cast  over  by  some  nigger  child.  He  knew  what  it  was  to 
lie  and  hear  the  flies  buzzing  and  wonder  what  tune  of  the 
devil  it  was  they  were  trying  to  imitate.  He  knew  what 
it  was  to  think  of  death  with  the  impotent  craving  of  a 
sick  child  for  some  impossible  toy. 

Look  into  your  own  life  and  see  all  the  tiny  things  that 
save  you  from  ennui  and  devilment,  and  give  you  heart  to 
continue  the  journey  from  hour  to  hour  in  this  world 


ANDREAS  MEEUS  93 

where  we  live.  Your  morning  paper,  the  new  book  from 
the  library  you  have  just  got  to  read,  the  pipe  you  hope 
to  smoke  when  you  return  from  work,  the  very  details 
of  your  work;  a  hundred  and  one  petty  things  that  make 
up  the  day  of  an  ordinary  man,  breaking  the  monotony 
and  breaking  the  prospect  before  him  into  short  views. 

Meeus  had  none  of  these.  Without  literature  or  love, 
without  a  woman  to  help  him  through,  without  a  child 
to  care  for  or  a  dog  to  care  for  him,  there  at  Fort  M'Bassa 
in  the  glaring  sunshine  he  faced  his  fate  and  became 
what  he  was. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NIGHT   AT    THE    FORT 

THE  night  was  hot  and  close  and  the  paraffin  lamp 
in  the  guest  house  mixed  its  smell  with  the 
tobacco  smoke  and  with  a  faint,  faint  musky 
odour  that  came  from  the  night  outside.  Every  now  and 
then  a  puff  of  hot  wind  blew  through  the  open  doorway, 
hot  and  damp  as  though  a  great  panther  were  breathing 
into  the  room. 

The  nights  in  the  forest  were  chill,  but  up  here  at  Fort 
M'Bassa  they  were  stewing  in  a  heat  wave. 

Adams,  with  his  coat  off,  pipe  in  mouth,  was  leaning 
back  in  a  basket  chair  with  his  feet  on  a  sugar  box. 
Berselius,  in  another  easy  chair,  was  smoking  a  cigar, 
and  Meeus,  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  was  talk- 
ing of  trade  and  its  troubles.  There  is  an  evil  spirit  in 
rubber  that  gives  a  lot  of  trouble  to  those  who  deal  with 
it.  The  getting  of  it  is  bad  enough,  but  the  tricks  of  the 
thing  itself  are  worse.  It  is  subject  to  all  sorts  of 
influences,  climatic  and  other,  and  tends  to  deteriorate  on 
its  journey  to  the  river  and  the  coast  of  Europe. 

It  was  marvellous  to  see  the  passion  with  which  this 
man  spoke  of  this  inanimate  thing. 

"And  then,  ivory,"  said  Meeus.  "When  I  came  here 

94 


NIGHT  AT  THE  FORT  95 

first,  hundred-pound  tusks  were  common;  when  you  reach 
that  district,  M.  le  Capitaine,  you  will  see  for  yourself,  no 
doubt,  that  the  elephants  have  decreased.  What  comes  in 
now,  even,  is  not  of  the  same  quality.  Scrivelloes  (small 
tusks),  defective  tusks,  for  which  one  gets  almost  nothing 
as  a  bonus.  And  with  the  decrease  of  the  elephant  comes 
the  increased  subterfuge  of  the  natives.  '  What  are  we  to 
do?'  they  say.  'We  cannot  make  elephants.'  This  is 
the  worst  six  months  for  ivory  I  have  had,  and  then,  on 
top  of  this  —  for  troubles  always  come  together  —  I  have 
this  bother  I  told  you  of  with  these  people  down  there  by 
the  Silent  Pools." 

A  village  ten  miles  to  the  east  had,  during  the  last  few 
weeks,  suspended  rubber  payments,  gone  arrear  in  taxes, 
the  villagers  running  off  into  the  forest  and  hiding  from 
their  hateful  work. 

"What  caused  the  trouble?"  asked  Berselius. 

"God  knows,"  replied  Meeus.  "It  may  blow  over  — 
it  may  have  blown  over  by  this,  for  I  have  had  no  word 
for  two  days;  anyhow,  to-morrow  I  will  walk  over  and 
see.  If  it  has  n't  blown  over,  I  will  give  the  people  very 
clearly  to  understand  that  there  will  be  trouble.  I  will 
stay  there  for  a  few  days  and  see  what  persuasion  can  do. 
Would  you  like  to  come  with  me  ?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Berselius.  "A  few  days'  rest 
will  do  the  porters  no  harm.  What  do  you  say,  Dr. 
Adams?" 

"I  'm  with  you,"  said  Adams.  "Anything  better  than 
to  stay  back  here  alone.  How  do  you  find  it  here,  M. 
Meeus,  when  you  are  by  yourself  ?" 


96  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"Oh,  one  lives,"  replied  the  Chef  de  Poste,  looking 
at  the  cigarette  between  his  fingers  with  a  dreamy  expres- 
sion, and  speaking  as  though  he  were  addressing  it.  "  One 
lives." 

That,  thought  Adams,  must  be  tne  worst  part  about 
it.  But  he  did  not  speak  the  words.  He  was  a  silent 
man,  slow  of  speech  but  ready  with  sympathy,  and  as  he 
lounged  comfortably  in  his  chair,  smoking  his  pipe,  his 
pity  for  Meeus  was  profound.  The  man  had  been  for 
two  years  in  this  benighted  solitude;  two  years  without 
seeing  a  white  face,  except  on  the  rare  occasion  of  a  Dis- 
trict Commissioner's  visit. 

He  ought  to  have  been  mad  by  this,  thought  Adams; 
and  he  was  a  judge,  for  he  had  studied  madness  and  its 
causes. 

But  Meeus  was  not  mad  in  the  least  particular.  He 
was  coldly  sane.  Lust  had  saved  his  reason,  the  lust 
inspired  by  Matabiche. 

Berselius's  cook  brought  in  some  coffee,  and  when  they 
had  talked  long  enough  about  the  Congo  trade  in  its 
various  branches,  they  went  out  and  smoked  their  pipes, 
leaning  or  sitting  on  the  low  wall  of  the  fort. 

The  first  quarter  of  the  moon,  low  in  the  sky  and  looking 
like  a  boat-shaped  Japanese  lantern,  lay  above  the  forest. 
The  forest,  spectral-pale  and  misty,  lay  beneath  the  moon ; 
the  heat  was  sweltering,  and  Adams  could  not  keep  the 
palms  of  his  hands  dry,  rub  them  with  his  pocket 
handkerchief  or  on  his  knees  as  much  as  he  would. 

This  is  the  heat  that  makes  a  man  feel  limp  as  a  wet 
rag;  the  heat  that  liquefies  morals  and  manners  and 


NIGHT  AT  THE  FORT  97 

temper  and  nerve  force,  so  that  they  run  with  the  sweat 
from  the  pores.  Drink  will  not  "bite"  in  this  heat,  and 
a  stiff  glass  of  brandy  affects  the  head  almost  as  little  as 
a  glass  of  water. 

"It  is  over  there,"  said  Meeus,  pointing  to  the  south- 
east, "that  we  are  going  to-morrow  to  interview  those 
beasts." 

Adams  started  at  the  intensity  of  loathing  expressed 
by  Meeus  in  that  sentence.  He  had  spoken  almost 
angrily  at  rubber  and  tusks,  but  his  languid,  complaining 
voice  had  held  nothing  like  this  before. 

Those  beasts!  He  hated  them,  and  he  would  not 
have  been  human  had  he  not  hated  them.  They  were 
his  jailers  in  veiy  truth,  their  work  was  his  deliverance. 

The  revolt  of  this  village  would  make  him  short  of 
rubber;  probably  it  would  bring  a  reprimand  from  his 
superiors. 

A  great  bat  flitted  by  so  close  that  the  smell  of  it  poisoned 
the  air,  and  from  the  forest,  far  away  to  the  west,  came  the 
ripping  saw-like  cry  of  a  leopard  on  the  prowl.  Many 
fierce  things  were  hunting  in  the  forest  that  night,  but 
nothing  fiercer  than  Meeus,  as  he  stood  in  the  moonlight, 
cigarette  in  mouth,  staring  across  the  misty  forest  in  the 
direction  of  the  Silent  Pools. 


PART  THREE 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    POOLS    OF   SILENCE 

NEXT  morning  Berselius  ordered  Felix  to  have  the 
tents  taken  from  the  go-down  and  enough  stores 
for  two  days.  Tents  and  stores  would  be  carried 
by  the  "soldiers"  of  the  fort,  who  were  to  accompany 
them  on  the  expedition. 

Adams  noticed  with  surprise  the  childlike  interest 
Meeus  took  in  the  belongings  of  Berselius;  the  green 
rot-proof  tents,  the  latest  invention  of  Europe,  seemed 
to  appeal  to  him  especially;  the  Roorkee  chairs,  the 
folding  baths,  the  mosquito  nets  of  the  latest  pattern, 
the  cooking  utensils  of  pure  aluminum,  filled  his 
simple  mind  with  astonishment.  His  mind  during 
his  sojourn  at  Fort  M'Bassa  had,  in  fact,  grown  child- 
like in  this  particular;  nothing  but  little  things  appealed 
to  him. 

Whilst  the  expedition  was  getting  ready  Adams  strolled 
about  outside  the  fort  walls.  The  black  "soldiers," 
who  were  to  accompany  them,  were  seated  in  the  sun  near 
their  hovels,  some  of  them  cleaning  their  rifles,  others 
smoking;  but  for  their  rifles  and  fez  caps  they  might,  with 
a  view  of  Carthage  in  the  distance,  have  been  taken  for 
the  black  legionaries  of  Hamilcar,  ferocious  mercenaries 

101 


102  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

without  country  or  God,  fierce  as  the  music  of  the  leopard- 
skin  drums  that  led  them  to  battle. 

Turning,  he  walked  round  the  west  wall  till  he  came 
to  the  wall  on  the  north,  which  was  higher  than  the  others. 
Here,  against  the  north  wall,  was  a  sheltered  cover  like 
an  immense  sty,  indescribably  filthy  and  evil-smelling; 
about  thirty  rings  were  fastened  to  the  wall,  and  from 
each  ring  depended  a  big  rusty  chain  ending  in  a  collar. 

It  was  the  Hostage  House  of  Fort  M'Bassa.  It  was 
empty  now,  but  nearly  always  full,  and  it  stood  there 
like  a  horrible  voiceless  witness. 

A  great  disgust  filled  the  mind  of  Adams;  disgust 
of  the  niggers  who  had  evidently  lately  inhabited  this 
place,  and  disgust  of  the  Belgians  who  had  herded  them 
there.  He  felt  there  was  something  very  wrong  in  the 
state  of  Congo.  The  Hostage  House  of  Yandjali  had 
started  the  impression;  Meeus  in  some  subtle  way  had 
deepened  it;  and  now  this. 

But  he  fully  recognized  what  difficult  people  to  deal 
with  niggers  are.  He  felt  that  all  this  was  slavery  under 
a  thin  disguise,  this  so-called  taxation  and  "trade,"  but 
it  was  not  his  affair. 

All  work  is  slavery  more  or  less  pleasant.  The  doctor 
is  the  slave  of  his  patients,  the  shopkeeper  of  his  clients. 
These  niggers  were,  no  doubt,  slaves  of  the  Belgians, 
but  they  were, riot  bought  and  sold;  they  had  to  work,  it 
is  true,  but  all  men  have  to  work.  Besides,  Berselius 
had  told  him  that  the  Belgians  had  stopped  the  liquor 
traffic  and  stopped  the  Arab  raiders.  There  was  good 
and  bad  on  the  side  of  the  Belgians,  and  the  niggers 


THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE  103 

were  niggers.  So  reasoned  Adams,  and  with  reason 
enough,  though  from  insufficient  data. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  blazing  sunshine,  that  even 
then  was  oppressive,  the  expedition  started.  The  white 
men  leading,  Felix  coming  immediately  behind,  and 
eleven  of  the  soldiers,  bearing  the  tents  and  stores  for 
two  days,  following  after. 

They  plunged  into  the  forest,  taking  a  dim  track, 
which  was  the  rubber  track  from  the  village  of  the  Silent 
Pools  and  from  half  a  dozen  other  villages  to  the  west. 
The  ground  here  was  different  from  the  ground  they  had 
traversed  in  coming  to  the  fort.  This  was  boggy;  here 
and  there  the  foot  sank  with  a  sough  into  the  pulp  of 
morass  and  rotten  leaves;  the  lianas  were  thinner  and  more 
snaky,  the  greenery,  if  possible,  greener,  and  the  air  close 
and  moist  as  the  air  of  a  steam-bath. 

The  forest  of  M'Bonga  has  great  tracts  of  this  boggy, 
pestiferous  land,  dreadful  sloughs  of  despond  caverned 
with  foliage,  and  by  some  curse  the  rubber  vines  entrench 
themselves  with  these.  The  naked  rubber  collectors, 
shivering  over  their  fires,  are  attacked  by  the  rheumatism 
and  dysentery  and  fever  that  lie  in  these  swamps;  diseases 
almost  merciful,  for  the  aches  and  pains  they  cause  draw 
the  mind  away  from  the  wild  beasts  and  devils  and 
phantoms  that  haunt  the  imagination  of  the  rubber 
slaves. 

It  took  them  three  hours  to  do  the  ten  miles,  and  then 
at  last  the  forest  cleared  away  and  fairyland  appeared. 

Here  in  the  very  depths  of  the  hopeless  jungle,  as  if 
laid  out  and  forgotten  by  some  ancient  god,  lie  the  Silent 


104  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Pools  of  Matabayo  and  the  parklike  lands  that  hold  them. 
Like  a  beautiful  song  in  some  tragic  and  gloomy  opera, 
a  regret  of  the  God  who  created  the  hopeless  forest, 
sheltered  by  the  great  n'sambya  trees,  they  lie;  pools  of 
shadowy  and  tranquil  water,  broken  by  reflections  of 
branches  and  mirroring  spear-grass  ten  feet  high  and  fan- 
like  fern  fronds. 

All  was  motionless  and  silent  as  a  stereoscopic  pic- 
ture; the  rocketing  palms  bursting  into  sprays  of  emerald 
green,  the  n'sambyas  with  their  trumpet-like  yellow  blos- 
soms, the  fern  fronds  reduplicating  themselves  in  the 
water's  glass,  all  and  each  lent  their  motionless  beauty 
to  the  completion  of  the  perfect  picture. 

In  the  old  days,  long  ago,  before  the  land  was  exploited 
and  the  forest  turned  into  a  hunting  ground  for  rubber, 
the  lovely  head  of  the  oryx  would  push  aside  the  long  green 
blades  of  the  speargrass;  then,  bending  her  lips  to  the 
lips  of  the  oryx  gazing  up  at  her  from  the  water,  she  would 
drink,  shattering  the  reflection  into  a  thousand  ripples. 
The  water-buck  came  here  in  herds  from  the  elephant 
country  away  south,  beyond  the  hour-glass-like  constric- 
tion which  divided  the  great  forest,  and  the  tiny  dik-dik, 
smallest  of  all  antelopes,  came  also  to  take  its  sip.  But 
all  that  is  past.  The  rifle  and  the  trap,  at  the  instigation  of 
the  devouring  Government  that  eats  rubber  and  antelope, 
ivory  and  palm-oil,  cassava  and  copal,  has  thinned  out  the 
herds  and  driven  them  away.  The  "soldier"  must  be 
fed.  Even  the  humble  bush  pig  of  the  forest  knows 
that  fact. 

It  was  four  years  since  Berselius  had  hunted  in  this 


THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE  105 

country,  and  even  in  that  short  time  he  found  enormous 
change.  But  he  could  not  grumble.  He  was  a  share- 
holder in  the  company,  and  in  twenty  industries  depend- 
ing on  it. 

Close  up  to  the  forest,  where  the  m'bina  trees  showed 
their  balls  of  scarlet  blossom,  lay  the  village  they  had  come 
to  reason  with.  There  were  twenty-five  or  more  low  huts 
of  wattle  and  mud,  roofed  with  leaves  and  grass.  No  one 
was  visible  but  an  old  woman,  naked,  all  but  for  a  slight 
covering  about  the  loins.  She  was  on  all  fours,  grinding 
something  between  two  stones,  and  as  she  sighted  the  party 
she  looked  backward  over  her  shoulder  at  them  like  a 
frightened  cat. 

She  cried  out  in  a  chattering  voice,  and  from  the  huts 
six  others,  naked  as  herself,  came,  stared  at  the  whites, 
and  then,  as  if  driven  by  the  same  impulse,  and  just  like 
rabbits,  darted  into  the  forest. 

But  Meeus  had  counted  on  this,  and  had  detached 
seven  of  his  men  to  crawl  round  and  post  themselves 
at  the  back  of  the  huts  amidst  the  trees. 

A  great  hullaballoo  broke  out,  and  almost  immediately 
the  soldiers  appeared,  driving  the  seven  villagers  before 
them  with  their  rifle-butts. 

They  were  not  hurting  them,  just  pushing  them  along, 
for  this  was,  up  to  the  present,  not  a  punitive  expedition 
but  a  fatherly  visitation  to  point  out  the  evils  of  laziness 
and  insubordination,  and  to  get,  if  possible,  these  poor 
wretches  to  communicate  with  the  disaffected  ones  and 
make  them  return  to  their  work. 

Adams  nearly  laughed   outright  at  the  faces  of  the 


106  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

villagers;  black  countenances  drawn  into  all  the  contor- 
tions of  fright,  but  the  contortions  of  their  bodies  were 
more  laughable  still,  as  they  came  forward  like  naughty 
children,  driven  by  the  soldiers,  putting  their  hands  out 
behind  to  evade  the  prods  of  the  gun-butts. 

Berselius  had  ordered  the  tents  to  be  raised  on  the 
sunlit  grass,  for  the  edge  of  the  forest,  though  shady, 
was  infested  by  clouds  of  tiny  black  midges  — midges 
whose  bite  was  as  bad,  almost,  as  the  bite  of  a  mosquito. 

Meeus  spoke  to  the  people  in  their  own  tongue,  telling 
them  not  to  be  afraid,  and  when  the  tents  were  erected 
he  and  Berselius  and  Adams,  sitting  in  the  shelter  of  the 
biggest  tent,  faced  the  seven  villagers,  all  drawn  up  in  a 
row  and  backed  by  the  eleven  soldiers  in  their  red  fez  caps. 

The  villagers,  backed  by  the  soldiers  and  fronted  by 
Meeus,  formed  a  picture  which  was  the  whole  Congo 
administration  in  a  nutshell.  In  a  sentence,  under- 
scored by  the  line  of  blood-red  fezzes. 

These  seven  undersized,  downtrodden,  hideously 
frightened  creatures,  with  eyeballs  rolling  and  the  marks 
of  old  chain  scars  on  their  necks,  were  the  represen- 
tatives of  all  the  humble  and  meek  tribes  of  the  Congo, 
the  people  who  for  thousands  of  years  had  lived  a  lowly 
life,  humble  as  the  coneys  of  Scripture;  people  who  had 
cultivated  the  art  of  agriculture  and  had  carried  civiliza- 
tion as  far  as  their  weak  hands  would  carry  it  in  that 
benighted  land.  Literally  the  salt  of  that  dark  earth. 
Very  poor  salt,  it  is  true,  but  the  best  they  could  make 
of  themselves. 

These  eleven  red-tipped  devils,  gun-butting  the  others 


THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE  107 

to  make  them  stand  erect  and  keep  in  line,  were  the 
representatives  of  the  warlike  tribes  who  for  thousands 
of  years  had  preyed  on  each  other  and  made  the  land  a 
hell.  Cannibals  most  of  them,  ferocious  all  of  them, 
heartless  to  a  man. 

Meeus  was  the  white  man  who,  urged  by  the  black 
lust  of  money,  had  armed  and  drilled  and  brought  under 
good  pay  all  the  warlike  tribes  of  the  Congo  State  and 
set  them  as  taskmasters  over  the  humble  tribes. 

By  extension,  Berselius  and  Adams  were  the  nations 
of  Europe  looking  on,  one  fully  knowing,  the  other  not 
quite  comprehending  the  tragedy  enacted  before  their 
eyes. 

I  am  not  fond  of  parallels,  but  as  these  people  have 
ranged  themselves  thus  before  my  eyes,  I  cannot  help 
pointing  out  the  full  meaning  of  the  picture.  A  pic- 
ture which  is  photographically  true. 

There  was  a  little  pot-bellied  boy  amongst  the  villagers, 
the  old  woman  of  the  grindstone  was  holding  him  by  the 
hand;  he,  of  all  the  crowd,  did  not  look  in  the  least  fright- 
ened. His  eyeballs  rolled,  but  they  rolled  in  wonder. 

The  tent  seemed  to  take  his  fancy  immensely;  then 
the  big  Adams  struck  his  taste,  and  he  examined  him 
from  tip  to  toe. 

Adams,  greatly  taken  with  the  blackamoor,  puffed  out 
his  cheeks,  closed  one  eye,  and  instantly,  as  if  at  the  blow 
of  a  hatchet,  the  black  face  split,  disclosing  two  white 
rows  of  teeth,  and  then  hid  itself,  rubbing  a  snub  nose 
against  the  old  woman's  thigh. 

But  a  rolling  white  eyeball  reappeared  in  a  moment, 


108  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

only  to  vanish  again  as  Adams,  this  time,  sucked  in  his 
cheeks  and  worked  his  nose,  making,  under  his  sun  hat, 
a  picture  to  delight  and  terrify  the  heart  of  any  child. 

All  this  was  quite  unobserved  by  the  rest,  and  all  this 
time  Meeus  gravely  and  slowly  was  talking  to  the  vil- 
lagers in  a  quiet  voice.  They  were  to  send  one  of  their 
number  into  the  forest  to  find  the  defaulters  and  urge 
them  to  return.  Then  all  would  be  well.  That  was  the 
gist  of  his  discourse;  and  the  wavering  line  of  niggers 
rolled  their  eyes  and  answered,  "We  hear,  we  hear,"  all 
together  and  like  one  person  speaking,  and  they  were 
nearly  tumbling  down  with  fright,  for  they  knew  that  all 
would  not  be  well,  and  that  what  the  awful  white  man 
with  the  pale,  grave  face  said  to  them  was  lies,  lies,  lies 
—  all  lies. 

Besides  the  old  woman  and  the  child  there  were  two 
young  girls,  an  old  man,  a  boy  of  fifteen  or  so,  with  only 
one  foot,  and  a  pregnant  woman  very  near  her  time. 

Adams  had  almost  forgotten  the  nigger  child  when 
a  white  eyeball  gazing  at  him  from  between  the  old 
woman's  legs  recalled  its  existence. 

He  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  jollier  animal  of  the 
human  tribe  than  that.  The  creature  was  so  absolutely 
human  and  full  of  fun  that  it  was  difficult  to  believe  it 
the  progeny  of  these  downtrodden,  frightened  looking 
folk.  And  the  strange  thing  was,  it  had  all  the  tricks  of 
an  English  or  American  child. 

-  The  hiding  and  peeping  business,  the  ready  laugh  fol- 
lowed by  bashfulness  and  self-effacement,  the  old  unalter- 
able impudence,  which  is  not  least  amidst  the  prima 


THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE  109 

mdbilia  of  the  childish  mind.  In  another  moment, 
he  felt,  the  thing  would  forget  its  respect  and  return 
his  grimaces,  so  he  ignored  it  and  fixed  his  attention  on 
Meeus  and  the  trembling  wretches  he  was  addressing. 

When  the  lecture  was  over  they  were  dismissed,  and 
the  boy  with  the  amputated  foot  was  sent  off  to  the  forest 
to  find  the  delinquents  and  bring  them  back.  Till  sun- 
rise on  the  following  day  was  the  term  given  him. 

If  the  others  did  not  begin  to  return  by  that  time  there 
would  be  trouble. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BEHIND    THE  MASK 

THE  Silent  Pools  and  the  woods  around  were  the 
haunts  of  innumerable  birds.  Rose-coloured 
flamingoes  and  gorgeous  ducks,  birds  arrayed 
in  all  the  jewellery  of  the  tropics,  birds  not  much  bigger 
than  dragon-flies,  and  birds  that  looked  like  flying  beetles. 
When  they  had  dined,  Adams,  leaving  the  others  to 
smoke  and  take  their  siesta,  went  off  by  the  water's  edge 
on  a  tour  of  the  pools.  They  were  three  in  number; 
sheets  of  water  blue  and  tranquil  and  well-named,  for 
surely  in  all  the  world  nowhere  else  could  such  perfect 
peace  be  found.  Perhaps  it  was  the  shelter  of  the 
forest  protecting  these  windless  sheets  of  water;  perhaps 
it  was  the  nature  of  the  foliage,  so  triumphantly 
alive  yet  so  motionless;  perhaps  beyond  these  some 
more  recondite  reason  influenced  the  mind  and  stirred 
the  imagination.  Who  knows  ?  The  spirit  of  the  scene 
was  there.  The  spirit  of  deep  and  unalterable  peace. 
The  peace  of  shadowy  lagoons,  the  peace  of  the  cedar 
groves  where  the  sheltering  trees  shaded  the  loveliness 
of  Merope,  the  peace  of  the  heart  which  passes  all  under- 
standing and  which  men  have  named  the  Peace  of  God. 
It  was  the  first  time  since  leaving  Yandjali  that  Adams 

110 


BEHIND  THE  MASK  111 

had  found  himself  alone  and  out  of  sight  of  his  compan- 
ions. He  breathed  deeply,  as  if  breathing  in  the  air  of  free- 
dom, and  as  he  strode  along,  tramping  through  the  long 
grass,  his  mind,  whilst  losing  no  detail  of  the  scene  around 
him,  was  travelling  far  away,  even  to  Paris,  and  beyond. 

Suddenly,  twenty  yards  ahead,  bounding  and  beautiful 
in  its  freedom  and  grace,  a  small  antelope  passed  with 
the  swiftness  of  an  arrow;  after  it,  almost  touching  it, 
came  another  form,  yellow  and  fierce  and  flashing  through 
the  grass  and  vanishing,  like  the  antelope,  amidst  the 
high  grasses  on  the  edge  of  the  pool. 

The  antelope  had  rushed  to  the  water  for  protection, 
and  the  leopard  had  followed,  carried  forward  by  its 
impetus  and  ferocity,  for  Adams  could  hear  its  splash 
following  the  splash  of  the  quarry;  then  a  roar  split 
the  silence,  echoed  from  the  trees,  and  sent  innumerable 
birds  fluttering  and  crying  from  the  edge  of  the  forest 
and  the  edge  of  the  pool. 

Adams  burst  through  the  long  speargrass  to  see  what 
was  happening,  and,  standing  on  the  boggy  margin,  hold- 
ing the  grasses  aside,  gazed. 

The  antelope  had  vanished  as  if  it  had  never  been,  and 
a  few  yards  from  the  shore,  in  the  midst  of  a  lather  of 
water  that  seemed  beaten  up  with  a  great  swizzle-stick, 
the  leopard's  head,  mouth  open,  roaring,  horrified  his 
eyes  for  a  moment  and  then  was  jerked  under  the  surface. 

The  water  closed,  eddied,  and  became  still,  and  Silence 
resumed  her  sway  over  the  Silent  Pools. 

Something  beneath  the  water  had  devoured  the  ante- 
lope; something  beneath  the  water  had  dragged  the 


112  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

/-\ 

leopard  to  its  doom,  and  swish !  a  huge  flail  tore  the  spear- 
grass  to  ribbons  and  sent  Adams  flying  backward  with 
the  wind  of  its  passage. 

Another  foot  and  the  crocodile's  tail  would  have  swept 
him  to  the  fate  of  the  antelope  and  leopard. 

The  place  was  alive  with  ferocity  and  horror,  and  it 
seemed  to  Adams  that  the  Silent  Pools  had  suddenly 
slipped  the  mask  of  silence  and  beauty  and  shown  to  him 
the  face  of  hideous  death. 

He  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow.  He  was  unarmed, 
and  it  seemed  that  a  man,  to  walk  in  safety  through  this 
Garden  of  Eden,  ought  to  be  armed  to  the  teeth.  He 
turned  back  to  the  camp,  walking  slowly  and  seeing 
nothing  of  the  beauties  around  him,  nothing  but  the 
picture  of  the  leopard's  face,  the  paws  frantically  beating 
the  water,  and  a  more  horrible  picture  still,  the  water 
resuming  its  calmness  and  its  peace. 

When  he  reached  the  camp,  he  found  Berselius  and 
Meeus  absent.  After  their  siesta  they  had  gone  for  a 
stroll  by  the  water's  edge  in  the  opposite  direction  to  that 
which  he  had  taken.  The  soldiers  were  on  duty,  keeping 
a  watchful  eye  on  the  villagers;  all  were  seated,  the  villag- 
ers in  front  of  their  huts  and  the  soldiers  in  the  shade, 
with  their  rifles  handy;  all,  that  is  to  say,  except  the  nigger 
child,  who  was  trotting  about  here  and  there,  and  who 
seemed  quite  destitute  of  fear  or  concern. 

When  this  creature  saw  the  gigantic  Adams  who 
looked  even  more  gigantic  in  his  white  drill  clothes,  it 
laughed  and  ran  away,  with  hands  outspread  and  head 
half  slewed  round.  Then  it  hid  behind  a  tree.  There  is 


BEHIND  THE  MASK  113 

nothing  more  charming  than  the  flight  of  a  child  when  it 
wishes  to  be  pursued.  It  is  the  instinct  of  women  and 
children  to  run  away,  so  as  to  lead  you  on,  and  it  is  the 
instinct  of  a  rightly  constituted  man  to  follow.  Adams 
came  toward  the  tree,  and  the  villagers  seated  before 
their  huts  and  the  soldiers  seated  in  the  shade  all  turned 
their  heads  like  automata  to  watch. 

"Hi  there,  you  ink-bottle!"  cried  Adams.  "Hullo 
there,  you  black  dogaroo !  Out  you  come,  Uncle  Remus ! " 
Then  he  whistled. 

He  stood  still,  knowing  that  to  approach  closer  would 
drive  the  dogaroo  to  flight  or  to  tree  climbing. 

There  was  nothing  visible  but  two  small  black  hands 
clutching  the  tree  bole;  then  the  golly wpg  face,  absolutely 
split  in  two  with  a  grin,  appeared  and  vanished. 

Adams  sat  down. 

The  old,  old  village  woman  who  was,  in  fact,  the  child's 
grandmother,  had  been  looking  on  nervously,  but  when 
the  big  man  sat  down  she  knew  he  was  only  playing 
with  the  child,  and  she  called  out  something  in  the  native, 
evidently  meant  to  reassure  it.  But  she  might  have 
saved  her  breath,  for  the  black  bundle  behind  the  tree 
suddenly  left  cover  and  stood  with  hands  folded,  looking 
at  the  seated  man. 

He  drew  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  up.  It 
approached.  He  whistled,  and  it  approached  nearer. 
Two  yards  away  it  stopped  dead. 

"Tick-tick,"  said  Adams,  holding  up  the  watch. 

"Papeete  N'quong,"  replied  the  other,  or  words  to 
that  effect. 


114  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

It  spoke  in  a  hoarse,  crowing  voice  not  at  all  unpleasant. 
If  you  listen  to  English  children  playing  in  the  street 
you  will  often  hear  this  croaking  sort  of  voice,  like  the 
voice  of  a  young  rook. 

Papeete  struck  Adams  as  a  good  name  for  the  animal 
and,  calling  him  by  it,  he  held  out  the  watch  as  a  bait. 

The  lured  one  approached  closer,  held  out  a  black 
claw,  and  next  moment  was  seized  by  the  foot. 

It  rolled  on  the  ground  like  a  dog,  laughing  and  kicking, 
and  Adams  tickled  it;  and  the  grim  soldiers  laughed, 
showing  their  sharp  white  teeth,  and  the  old  grand- 
mother beat  her  hands  together,  palm  to  palm,  as 
if  pleased,  and  the  other  villagers  looked  on  without  the 
ghost  of  an  expression  on  their  black  faces. 

Then  he  jumped  it  on  its  feet  and  sent  it  back  to  its 
people  with  a  slap  on  its  behind,  and  returned  to  his  tent 
to  smoke  till  Berselius  and  Meeus  returned. 

But  he  had  worked  his  own  undoing,  for,  till  they 
broke  camp,  Papeete  haunted  him  like  a  buzz-fly,  peeping 
at  him,  sometimes  from  under  the  tent,  trotting  after  him 
like  a  dog,  watching  him  from  a  distance,  till  he  began  to 
think  of  "haunts"  and  "sendings"  and  spooks. 

When  Berselius  and  his  companion  returned,  the  three 
men  sat  and  smoked  till  supper  time. 

At  dark  the  villagers  were  driven 'into  their  huts  and  at 
the  door  of  each  hut  lay  a  sentry. 

A  big  fire  was  lit,  and  by  its  light  two  more  sentries 
kept  watch  over  the  others  and  their  prisoners.  Then  the 
moon  rose,  spreading  silver  over  the  silence  of  the  pools 
and  the  limitless  foliage  of  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   PUNISHMENT 

THE  sun  rose,  bringing  with  it  a  breeze.  Above  the 
stir  and  bustle  of  the  birds  you  could  hear  the 
gentle  wind  in  the  tree-tops  like  the  sound  of 
a  sea  on  a  low-tide  beach. 

The  camp  was  still  in  gloom,  but  the  whole  arc  of  sky 
above  the  pools  was  thrilled  and  filled  with  living  light. 
Sapphire  blue,  dazzling  and  pale,  but  deep  with  infinite 
distance,  it  had  an  intrinsic  brilliancy  as  though  filled 
with  sunbeams  brayed  to  dust. 

The  palm  tops  had  caught  the  morning  splendour 
and  then,  rapidly,  as  though  the  armies  of  light  were 
moving  to  imperious  trumpet-calls,  charging  with  golden 
spears,  legion  on  legion,  a  hurricane  of  brightness,  Day 
broke  upon  the  pools. 

We  call  it  Day,  but  what  is  it,  this  splendour  that  comes 
from  nowhere,  and  vanishes  to  nowhere,  that  strikes  our 
lives  rhythmically  like  the  golden  wing  of  a  vast  and  flying 
bird,  bearing  us  along  with  it  in  the  wind  of  its  flight  ? 

The  rotation  of  the  earth?  But  in  the  desert,  on 
the  sea,  in  the  spaces  of  the  forest  you  will  see  in  the  dawn 
a  vision  divorced  from  time,  a  recurring  glance  of  a  beauty 
that  is  eternal,  a  ray  as  if  from  the  bright  world  toward 

115 


116  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

which  the  great  bird  Time  is  flying,  caught  and  reflected 
to  our  eyes  by  every  lift  of  the  wing. 

The  dawn  had  not  brought  the  truants  back  from  the 
forest. 

This  point  Meeus  carefully  verified.  Even  the  boy 
who  had  been  sent  to  communicate  with  them  had  not 
returned. 

"No  news  ?"  said  Berselius,  as  he  stepped  from  his  tent- 
door  and  glanced  around  him. 

"None,"  replied  Meeus. 

Adams  now  appeared,  and  the  servants  who  had  been 
preparing  breakfast  laid  it  on  the  grass.  The  smell  of 
coffee  filled  the  air;  nothing  could  be  more  pleasant  than 
this  out-of-doors  breakfast  in  the  bright  and  lovely  morn- 
ing, the  air  fresh  with  the  breeze  and  the  voices  of  birds. 

The  villagers  were  all  seated  in  a  group,  huddled  together 
at  the  extreme  left  of  the  row  of  huts.  They  were  no 
longer  free,  but  tied  together  ankle  to  ankle  by  strips  of 
n'goji.  Only  Papeete  was  at  liberty,  but  he  kept  at  a 
distance.  He  was  seated  near  the  old  woman,  and  he 
was  exploring  the  interior  of  an  empty  tomato  tin  flung 
away  by  the  cook. 

"I  will  give  them  two  hours  more,"  said  Meeus,  as  he 
sipped  his  coffee. 

"And  then?"  said  Adams. 

Meeus  was  about  to  reply  when  he  caught  a  glance 
from  Berselius. 

"Then,"  he  said,  "I  will  knock  those  mud  houses  of 
theirs  to  pieces.  They  require  a  lesson." 

"Poor  devils!"  said  Adams. 


THE  PUNISHMENT  117 

Meeus  during  the  meal  did  not  display  a  trace  of 
irritation.  From  his  appearance  one  might  have  judged 
that  the  niggers  had  returned  to  their  work,  and  that 
everything  was  going  well.  At  times  he  appeared  absent- 
minded,  and  at  times  he  wore  a  gloomy  but  triumphant 
look,  as  though  some  business  which  had  unpleasant 
memories  attached  to  it  had  at  last  been  settled  to  his 
satisfaction. 

After  breakfast  he  drew  Berselius  aside,  and  the  two 
men  walked  away  in  the  direction  of  the  pools,  leaving 
Adams  to  smoke  his  pipe  in  the  shade  of  the  tent. 

They  came  back  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  Berse- 
lius, after  speaking  a  few  words  to  Felix,  turned  to 
Adams. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  return  to  Fort  M'Bassa  and  get 
everything  in  readiness  for  our  departure.  Felix  will 
accompany  you.  I  will  follow  in  a  couple  of  hours  with 
M.  Meeus.  I  am  afraid  we  will  have  to  pull  these  people's 
houses  down.  It 's  a  painful  duty,  but  it  has  to  be  per- 
formed. You  will  save  yourself  the  sight  of  it." 

"Thanks,"  said  Adams.  Not  for  a  good  deal  of  money 
would  he  have  remained  to  see  those  wretched  hovels 
knocked  to  pieces.  He  could  perceive  plainly  enough 
that  the  thing  had  to  be  done.  Conciliation  had  been 
tried,  and  it  was  of  no  avail.  He  was  quite  on  the  side 
of  Meeus;  indeed,  he  had  admired  the  self-restraint  of 
this  very  much  tried  Chef  de  Poste.  Not  a  hard  word, 
not  a  blow,  scarcely  a  threat  had  been  used.  The  people 
had  been  spoken  to  in  a  fatherly  manner,  a  messenger 
had  been  sent  to  the  truants,  and  the  messenger  had  joined 


118  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

them.  At  all  events  he  had  not  returned.  Then,  cer- 
tainly, pull  their  houses  down.  But  he  did  not  wish  to 
see  the  sight.  He  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  affair,  so 
filling  and  lighting  another  pipe,  and  leaving  all  his  belong- 
ings to  be  brought  on  by  Berselius,  he  turned  with  Felix 
and,  saying  good-bye  to  his  companions,  started. 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  edge  of  the  forest  when 
shouts  from  behind  caused  Adams  to  turn  his  head. 

The  soldiers  were  shouting  to  Papeete  to  come  back. 

The  thing  had  trotted  after  Adams  like  a  black  dog. 
It  was  within  a  few  yards  of  him. 

"Go  back,"  shouted  Adams. 

"Tick-tick,"  replied  Papeete.  It  was  the  only  English 
the  creature  knew. 

It  stood  frying  in  the  sun,  grinning  and  glistening,  till 
Adams,  with  an  assumption  of  ferocity,  made  for  it,  then 
back  it  went,  and  Adams,  laughing,  plunged  under  the 
veil  of  leaves. 

Berselius,  seated  at  his  tent  door,  looked  at  his  watch. 
Meeus,  seated  beside  Berselius,  was  smoking  cigarettes. 

"Give  him  an  hour,"  said  Berselius.  "He  will  be  far 
away  enough  by  that.  Besides,  the  wind  is  blowing  from 
there." 

"True,"  said  Meeus.  "An  hour."  And  he  continued 
to  smoke.  But  his  hand  was  shaking,  and  he  was  biting 
the  cigarette,  and  his  lips  were  dry  so  that  he  had  to  be 
continually  licking  them. 

Berselius  was  quite  calm,  but  his  face  was  pale,  and 
he  seemed  contemplating  something  at  a  distance. 

When  half  an  hour  had  passed,  Meeus  rose  suddenly  to 


THE  PUNISHMENT  119 

his  feet  and  began  to  walk  about,  up  and  down,  in  front  of 
the  tent,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  as  a  man  walks 
when  he  is  in  distress  of  mind. 

The  black  soldiers  also  seemed  uneasy,  and  the  villagers 
huddled  closer  together  like  sheep.  Papeete  alone 
seemed  undisturbed.  He  was  playing  now  with  the  old 
tomato  tin,  out  of  which  he  had  scraped  and  licked  every 
vestige  of  the  contents. 

Suddenly  Meeus  began  crying  out  to  the  soldiers  in  a 
hard,  sharp  voice  like  the  yelping  of  a  dog. 

The  time  was  up,  and  the  soldiers  knew.  They  ranged 
up,  chattering  and  laughing,  and  all  at  once,  as  if  pro- 
duced from  nowhere,  two  rhinoceros  hide  whips  appeared 
in  the  hands  of  two  of  the  tallest  of  the  blacks. 
Rhinoceros  hide  is  more  than  an  inch  thick;  it  is  clear  and 
almost  translucent  when  properly  prepared.  In  the  form 
of  a  whip  it  is  less  an  instrument  of  punishment  than  a 
weapon.  These  whips  were  not  the  smoothly  prepared 
whips  used  for  light  punishment;  they  had  angles  that 
cut  like  sword  edges.  One  wonders  what  those  senti- 
mental people  would  say  —  those  sentimental  people  who 
cry  out  if  a  burly  ruffian  is  ordered  twenty  strokes  with  the 
cat  —  could  they  see  a  hundred  chicotte  administered 
with  a  whip  that  is  flexible  as  india-rubber,  hard  as  steel. 

Two  soldiers  at  the  yelping  orders  of  Meeus  cut  the  old 
woman  apart  from  her  fellows  and  flung  her  on  the  ground. 

The  two  soldiers  armed  with  whips  came  to  her,  and 
she  did  not  speak  a  word,  nor  cry  out,  but  lay  grinning  at 
the  sun. 

Papeete,  seeing  his  old  grandmother  treated  like  this, 


120  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

dropped  his  tomato  tin  and  screamed,  till  a  soldier  put  a 
foot  on  his  chest  and  held  him  down. 

"Two  hundred  chicotte"  cried  Meeus,  and  like  the  echo 
of  his  words  came  the  first  dull,  coughing  blow. 

The  villagers  shrieked  and  cried  altogether  at  each 
blow,  but  the  victim,  after  the  shriek  which  followed  the 
first  blow,  was  dumb. 

Free  as  a  top  which  is  being  whipped  by  a  boy,  she 
gyrated,  making  frantic  efforts  to  escape,  and  like  boys 
whipping  a  top,  the  two  soldiers  with  their  whips  pur- 
sued her,  blow  following  blow. 

A  semicircle  of  blood  on  the  ground  marked  her  gyra- 
tions. Once  she  almost  gained  her  feet,  but  a  blow  in  the 
face  sent  her  down  again.  She  put  her  hands  to  her  poor 
face,  and  the  rhinoceros  whips  caught  her  on  the  hands, 
breaking  them.  She  flung  herself  on  her  back  and  they 
beat  her  on  the  stomach,  cutting  through  the  walls  of  the 
abdomen  till  the  intestines  protruded.  She  flung  herself 
on  her  face  and  they  cut  into  her  back  with  the  whips 
till  her  ribs  were  bare  and  the  fat  bulged  through  the 
long  slashes  in  the  skin. 

Verily  it  was  a  beating  to  the  bitter  end,  and  Meeus, 
pale,  dripping  with  sweat,  his  eyes  dilated  to  a  rim,  ran 
about  laughing,  shouting  — 

"  Two  hundred  chicotte.     Two  hundred  chicotte." 

He  cried  the  words  like  a  parrot,  not  knowing  what  he 
said. 

And  Berselius? 

Berselius,  also  dripping  with  sweat,  his  eyes  also  dilated 


THE  PUNISHMENT  121 

to  a  rim,  tottering  like  a  drunken  man,  gazed,  drinking, 
drinking  the  sight  in. 

Down,  away  down  in  the  heart  of  man  there  is  a  trap- 
door. Beyond  the  instincts  of  murder  and  assassination, 
beyond  the  instincts  that  make  a  Count  Cajus  or  a  Mar- 
quis de  Sade,  it  lies,  and  it  leads  directly  into  the  last  and 
nethermost  depths  of  hell,  where  sits  in  eternal  damnation 
Eccelin  de  Romano. 

Cruelty  for  cruelty's  sake:  the  mad  pleasure  of  watch- 
ing suffering  in  its  most  odious  form:  that  is  the  passion 
which  hides  demon-like  beneath  this  door,  and  that  was 
the  passion  that  held  Berselius  now  in  its  grip. 

He  had  drunk  of  all  things,  this  man,  but  never  of  such 
a  potent  draught  as  this  demon  held  now  to  his  lips  —  and 
not  for  the  first  time.  The  draught  would  have  been 
nothing  but  for  the  bitterness  of  it,  the  horror  of  it,  the 
mad  delight  of  knowing  the  fiendishness  of  it,  and  drinking 
drinking,  drinking,  till  reason,  self-respect,  and  soul,  were 
overthrown. 

The  thing  that  had  been  a  black  woman  and,  now, 
seemed  like  nothing  earthly  except  a  bundle  of  red  rags, 
gave  up  the  miserable  soul  it  contained  and,  stiffening 
in  the  clutches  of  tetanus,  became  a  hoop. 

What  happened  then  to  the  remaining  villagers  could 
be  heard  echoing  for  miles  through  the  forest  in  the  shrieks 
and  wails  of  the  tortured  ones. 

One  cannot  write  of  unnamable  things,  unprintable 
deeds.  The  screams  lasted  till  noon. 

At  one  o'clock  the  punitive  expedition  had  departed, 


122  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

leaving  the  Silent  Pools  to  their  silence.  The  houses  of 
the  village  had  been  destroyed  and  trampled  out.  The 
sward  lay  covered  with  shapeless  remains,  and  scarcely 
had  the  last  of  the  expedition  departed,  staggering  and 
half  drunk  with  the  delirium  of  their  deeds,  than  from  the 
blue  above,  like  a  stone,  dropped  a  vulture. 

A  vulture  drops  like  a  stone,  with  wings  closed  till  it 
reaches  within  a  few  yards  of  the  ground ;  then  it  spreads 
its  wings  and,  with  wide-opened  talons,  lights  on  its  prey. 

Then,  a  marabout  with  fore-slanting  legs  and  domed- 
out  wings,  came  sailing  silently  down  to  the  feast,  and 
another  vulture,  and  yet  another. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DUE   SOUTH 

WHEN  Berselius  and  Meeus  returned  to  Fort 
M'Bassa  Adams,  who  met  them,  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  Berselius  had  been  drinking. 
The  man's  face  looked  stiff  and  bloated,  just  as  a  man's 
face  looks  after  a  terrible  debauch.  Meeus  looked  cold 
and  hard  and  old,  but  his  eyes  were  bright  and  he  was 
seemingly  quite  himself. 

"To-morrow  I  shall  start,"  said  Berselius.  "Not 
to-day.  I  am  tired  and  wish  to  sleep."  He  went  off 
to  the  room  where  his  bed  was,  and  cast  himself  on  it  and 
fell  instantly  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep. 

The  innocent  may  wonder  how  such  a  man  would 
dare  to  sleep  —  dare  to  enter  that  dark  country  so  close 
to  the  frontier  of  death.  But  what  should  the  innocent 
know  of  a  Berselius,  who  was  yet  a  living  man  and  walked 
the  earth  but  a  few  years  ago,  and  whose  prototype  is 
alive  to-day.  Alive  and  powerful  and  lustful,  great  in 
mind,  body,  and  estate. 

Before  sunrise  next  morning  the  expedition  was  mar- 
shalled in  the  courtyard  for  the  start. 

A  great  fire  burned  in  the  space  just  before  the  house, 

123 


124  THE  POOLS  OP  SILENCE 

and  by  its  light  the  stores  and  tents  were  taken  from  the 
go-down.  The  red  light  of  the  fire  lit  up  the  black 
glistening  skins  of  the  porters  as  they  loaded  themselves 
with  the  chop  boxes  and  tents  and  guns;  lit  up  the  red 
fez  caps  of  the  onlooking  "soldiers,"  their  glittering 
white  teeth,  their  white  eyeballs,  and  the  barrels  of  their 
rifles. 

Beyond  and  below  the  fort  the  forest  stretched  in  the 
living  starlight  like  an  infinite  white  sea.  The  tree-tops 
were  roofed  with  a  faint  mist,  no  breath  of  wind  disturbed 
it,  and  in  contrast  to  the  deathly  stillness  of  all  that  dead- 
white  world  the  sky,  filled  with  leaping  stars,  seemed  alive 
and  vocal. 

It  was  chill  up  here  just  before  dawn.  Hence  the  fire. 
Food  had  been  served  out  to  the  porters,  and  they  ate  it 
whilst  getting  things  ready  and  loading  up.  Berselius 
and  his  companions  were  breakfasting  in  the  guest  house 
and  the  light  of  the  paraffin  lamp  lay  on  the  veranda 
yellow  as  topaz  in  contrast  with  the  red  light  of  the  fire 
in  the  yard. 

Everything  was  ready  for  the  start.  They  were  waiting 
now  for  the  sun. 

Then,  away  to  the  east,  as  though  a  vague  azure  wind 
had  blown  up  under  the  canopy  of  darkness,  the  sky, 
right  down  to  the  roof  of  the  forest,  became  translucent 
and  filled  with  distance. 

A  reef  of  cloud  like  a  vermilion  pencil-line  materialized 
itself,  became  a  rose-red  feather  tipped  with  dazzling 
gold,  and  dissolved  as  if  washed  away  by  the  rising  sea 
of  light. 


DUE  SOUTH  125 

A  great  bustle  spread  through  the  courtyard.  The 
remaining  stores  were  loaded  up,  and  under  the  direction 
of  Felix,  the  porters  formed  in  a  long  line,  their  loads  on 
their  heads. 

As  the  expedition  left  the  compound  it  was  already 
day.  The  edge  of  the  sun  had  leaped  over  the  edge  of 
the  forest,  the  world  was  filled  with  light,  and  the  sky  was 
a  sparkling  blue. 

What  a  scene  that  was!  The  limitless  sea  of  snow- 
white  mist  rippled  over  by  the  sea  of  light,  the  mist 
billowed  and  spiralled  by  the  dawn  wind,  great  palm  tops 
bursting  through  the  haze,  glittering  effulgent  with  dew, 
birds  breaking  to  the  sky  in  coloured  flocks,  snow,  and 
light,  and  the  green  of  tremendous  vegetation,  and  over 
all,  new-built  and  beautiful,  the  blue,  tranquil  dome  of  sky. 

It  was  song  materialized  in  colour  and  form,  the  song 
of  the  primeval  forests  breaking  from  the  mists  of  chaos, 
tremendous,  triumphant,  joyous,  finding  day  at  last,  and 
greeting  him  with  the  glory  of  the  palms,  with  the 
rustle  of  the  n'sambyas  tossing  their  golden  bugles 
to  the  light,  the  drip  and  sigh  of  the  euphorbia  trees,  the 
broad -leaved  plantains  and  the  thousand  others  whose 
forms  hold  the  gloom  of  the  forest  in  the  mesh  of  their 
leaves. 

"I  have  awakened,  O  God!  I  have  awakened.  Behold 
me,  O  Lord!  I  am  Thine!" 

Thus  to  the  splendour  of  the  sun  and  led  by  the  trumpet 
of  the  wind  sang  the  forest.  A  hundred  million  trees  lent 
their  voices  to  the  song.  A  hundred  million  trees 
— acacia  and  palm,  m'bina  and  cottonwood,  thorn  and 


126  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

mimosa;  in  gloom,  in  shine,  in  valley  and  on  rise,  mist- 
strewn  and  sun-stricken,  all  bending  under  the  deep  sweet 
billows  of  the  wind. 

At  the  edge  of  the  forest  Berselius  and  Adams  took 
leave  of  Meeus.  Neither  Berselius  nor  Meeus  showed 
any  sign  of  the  past  day.  They  had  "slept  it  off."  As 
for  Adams,  he  knew  nothing,  except  that  the  villagers  had 
been  punished  and  their  houses  destroyed. 

The  way  lay  due  south.  They  were  now  treading 
that  isthmus  of  woods  which  connects  the  two  great  forests 
which,  united  thus,  make  the  forest  of  M'Bonga.  The 
trees  in  this  vast  connecting  wood  are  different  from  the 
trees  in  the  main  forests.  You  find  here  enormous  acacias, 
monkey-bread  trees,  raphia  palms  and  baobabs;  less 
gloom,  and  fewer  creeping  and  hanging  plants. 

Berselius,  as  a  rule,  brought  with  him  a  taxidermist, 
but  this  expedition  was  purely  for  sport.  The  tusks 
of  whatever  elephants  were  slain  would  be  brought  back, 
but  no  skins;  unless,  indeed,  they  were  fortunate  enough 
to  find  some  rare  or  unknown  species. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

SUN-WASHED    SPACES 

A  TWO  days'  march  brought  them  clear  of  the 
woods  and  into  a  broken  country,  vast,  sunstrewn 
and  silent;  a  beautiful  desolation  where  the 
tall  grass  waved  in  the  wind,  and  ridge  and  hollow,  plain 
and  mimosa  tree,  led  the  eye  beyond,  and  beyond,  to 
everlasting  space. 

Standing  here  alone,  and  listening,  the  only  sound 
from  all  that  great  sunlit  country  was  the  sound  of  the 
wind  in  the  grasses  near  by. 

Truly  this  place  was  at  the  very  back  of  the  world,  the 
hinterland  of  the  primeval  forests.  Strike  eastward  far 
enough  and  you  would  sight  the  snow-capped  crest  of 
Kilimanjaro,  King  of  African  mountains,  sitting  snow- 
crowned  above  the  vast  territory  to  which  he  has  given 
his  name,  and  which  stretches  from  Lake  Eyasi  to  the 
Pare  Mountains.  The  hunters  of  Kilimanjaro,  which 
once  was  the  home  of  elephants,  have  thinned  the  herds 
and  driven  them  to  wander.  Elephants  that  a  hundred 
years  ago,  even  fifty  years  ago,  were  almost  fearless  of 
man,  have  altered  their  habits  from  the  bitter  lessons  they 
have  received,  and  now  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  most 
inaccessible  places.  Should  they  cling  to  more  inhabited 

127 


128  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

districts,  they  come  out  of  the  sheltered  places  only  by 
night.  A  man  may  spend  years  in  an  elephant  district 
without  once  seeing  an  elephant.  Driven  by  the  necessity 
of  food  and  the  fear  of  man,  the  great  herds  wander  in 
their  wonderful  and  mysterious  journeys  for  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  miles.  Never  lying  down,  sleeping  as  they 
stand,  always  on  guard,  dim  of  sight  yet  keen  of  smell, 
they  pass  where  there  are  trees,  feeding  as  they  go,  strip- 
ping branches  of  leaves.  Alarmed,  or  seeking  a  new  feed- 
ing place,  a  herd  moves  in  the  rainy  season,  when 
the  ground  is  soft,  with  the  silence  and  swiftness  of 
a  cloud  shadow;  in  the  dry  season  when  the  ground  is 
hard,  the  sound  of  them  stampeding  is  like  the  drums  of 
an  army. 

"Elephants,"  said  Berselius,  pointing  to  some  bundles 
of  dried  stuff  lying  near  a  vangueria  bush.  "That  stuff  is 
a  bundle  of  bowstring  hemp.  They  chew  it  and  drop  it. 
Oh,  that  has  been  dropped  a  long  time  ago;  see,  there  you 
have  elephants  again." 

A  tree  standing  alone  showed  half  its  bark  ripped  off, 
tusked  off  by  some  old  bull  elephant,  and  above  the  tusk 
marks,  some  fifteen  feet  up,  could  be  seen  the  rubbing 
mark  where  great  shoulders  had  scratched  themselves. 

As  they  marched,  making  due  south,  Berselius  in  that 
cold  manner  which  never  left  him,  and  which  made  com- 
radeship with  the  man  impossible  and  reduced  compan- 
ionship to  the  thinnest  bond,  talked  to  Adams  about  the 
game  they  were  after,  telling  in  a  few  graphic  sentences 
and  not  without  feeling  the  wonderful  story  of  the  moving 
herds,  to  whom  distance  is  nothing,  to  whom  mountains 


SUN-WASHED  SPACES  129 

are  nothing,  to  whom  the  thickest  jungle  is  nothing.  The 
poem  of  the  children  of  the  mammoth  who  have  walked 
the  earth  with  the  mastodon,  who  have  stripped  the  trees 
wherein  dwelt  arboreal  man,  who  have  wandered  under 
the  stars  and  suns  of  a  million  years,  seen  rivers  change 
their  courses  and  hills  arise  where  plains  had  been,  and 
yet  remain,  far  strewn  and  thinned  out,  it  is  true,  but 
living  still.  At  noon  they  halted  and  the  tents  were  pitched 
for  a  four  hours'  rest. 

Adams,  whilst  dinner  was  preparing,  walked  away 
by  himself  till  the  camp  was  hidden  by  a  ridge,  then  he 
stood  and  looked  around  him. 

Alone,  like  this,  the  spirit  of  the  scene  appeared  before 
him:  the  sun,  and  wind,  and  sky;  the  vast,  vast  spaces 
of  waving  grass,  broken  by  the  beds  of  dried-up  streams, 
strewn  here  and  there  with  mimosas  and  thorns,  here  dim 
with  the  growth  of  vangueria  bushes,  here  sharp  and 
gray-green  with  cactus;  this  giant  land,  infinite,  sunlit, 
and  silent,  spoke  to  him  in  a  new  language. 

It  seemed  to  Adams  that  he  had  never  known  freedom 
before. 

A  shadow  swept  by  him  on  the  grass.  He  looked 
up  and  watched  the  great  bird  that  had  cast  the  shadow 
sailing  away  on  the  wind,  dwindling  to  a  point,  and  vanish- 
ing in  the  dazzling  blue. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FAR   INTO    ELEPHANT   LAND 

THEY  sighted  a  small  herd  of  giraffe  two  days 
later,  but  so  far  off  as  to  be  beyond  pursuit; 
but  before  evening,  just  as  they  were  about  to 
camp  by  some  pools,  they  came  across  rhino. 

Berselius's  quick  eye  spotted  the  beasts,  a  bull  and  a 
cow.  They  were  in  the  open,  under  shelter  of  some  thick 
grass;  the  bull  was  half  sitting  up,  and  his  head  and  horn 
in  the  evening  light  might  have  been  taken  for  the  stump  of 
a  broken  tree.  The  cow  was  not  visible  at  first,  but  almost 
immediately  after  they  sighted  the  bull,  she  heaved  herself 
up  and  stood  a  silhouette  against  the  sky. 

The  wind  was  blowing  from  the  beasts,  so  it  was  quite 
possible  to  get  close  up  to  them.  The  meat  would  be 
useful,  so  Berselius  and  his  companion  started,  with 
Felix  carrying  the  guns. 

As  they  drew  close  Adams  noticed  that  the  back  of 
the  great  cow  seemed  alive  and  in  motion.  Half  a  dozen 
rhinoceros  birds,  in  fact,  were  upon  it,  and  almost  imme- 
diately, sighting  the  hunters,  they  rose  chattering  and 
fluttering  in  the  air. 

These  birds  are  the  guardians  of  the  half-blind  rhin- 
oceros. They  live  on  the  parasites  that  infest  his  skin. 

130 


FAR  INTO  ELEPHANT  LAND  131 

It  is  a  partnership.  The  birds  warn  the  rhinoceros  of 
danger,  and  he,  vicariously,  feeds  the  birds.  Scarcely 
had  the  birds  given  warning  than  the  bull  heaved  himself 
up.  Berselius's  rifle  rang  out,  but  the  light  was  uncertain, 
and  the  brute  wounded,  but  not  mortally,  charged  forward 
took  a  half  circle,  swung  his  head  from  side  to  side  in 
search  of  his  assailant,  and  sighted  the  cow.  Instantly, 
horn  down  and  squealing,  he  charged  her.  She  met 
him  horn  to  horn,  and  the  smash  could  be  heard  at  the 
camp  where  the  porters  and  the  soldiers  stood  gazing 
open-mouthed  at  the  battle  between  the  two  great  brutes 
charging  each  other  in  the  low  evening  light,  fighting  with 
the  ferocity  of  tigers  and  the  agility  of  cats. 

Adams,  close  up  as  he  was,  had  a  better  view,  and 
unless  he  had  seen  with  his  own  eyes,  he  could  not  have 
believed  that  two  animals  so  heavy  and  unwieldy 
could  display  such  nimbleness  and  such  quickness  of 
ferocity. 

It  was  the  wickedest  sight,  and  it  was  brought  to  an 
end  at  last  by  the  rifle  of  Berselius. 

Curiously  enough,  neither  brute  had  injured  the  other 
very  much.  The  horns  which,  had  they  been  of  ivory, 
must  have  been  shivered,  were  intact,  for  the  horn  of  a 
rhinoceros  is  flexible;  it  is  built  up  of  a  conglomeration 
of  hairs,  and  though,  perhaps,  the  most  unbreakable  thing 
in  the  universe,  it  bends  up  to  a  certain  point  just  as  a 
rapier  does. 

Next  morning,  two  hours  after  daybreak,  Felix,  who 
was  scouting  just  ahead  of  the  column,  came  running 
back  with  news  he  had  struck  elephant  spoor.  Every 


132  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

tooth  in  his  head  told  the  tale.  Not  only  spoor,  but  the 
spoor  of  a  vast  herd  cutting  right  across  the  line  of  march. 

Berselius  came  forward  to  examine,  and  Adams  came 
with  him. 

The  dry  ground  and  wire  grass  was  not  the  best  medium 
for  taking  the  track  of  the  beasts,  but  to  the  experienced 
eyes  of  Berselius  and  the  Zappo  Zap  everything  was  clear. 
A  herd  of  elephant  had  passed  not  long  ago,  and  they 
were  undisturbed  and  unsuspicious.  When  elephants 
are  suspicious  they  march  in  lines,  single  file,  one  stepping 
in  the  tracks  of  another.  This  herd  was  spread  wide  and 
going  easy  of  mind,  but  at  what  pace  it  would  be  impossible 
to  say. 

The  long  boat-shaped  back  feet  of  the  bulls  leave  a 
print  unmistakable  in  the  rainy  season  when  the  ground 
is  soft,  but  still  discernible  to  the  trained  eye  in  the  dry 
season.  Felix  declared  that  there  were  at  least  twenty 
bulls  in  the  herd,  and  some  of  huge  size. 

"How  long  is  it  since  they  passed  here?"  asked 
Berselius. 

Felix  held  up  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  From  certain 
indications  he  came  to  the  conclusion  they  had  passed  late 
in  the  night,  three  hours  or  so  before  daybreak.  They 
numbered  forty  or  fifty,  leaving  aside  the  calves  that  might 
be  with  them.  He  delivered  these  opinions,  speaking  in 
the  native,  and  Berselius  instantly  gave  the  order,  "Left 
wheel!"  to  the  crowd  of  porters;  and  at  the  word  the 
long  column  turned  at  right  angles  to  the  line  of  march 
and  struck  due  west,  treading  the  track  of  the  herd. 

Nothing  is  more  exciting  than  this  following   in    the 


FAR  INTO  ELEPHANT  LAND  133 

track  of  a  mammoth  army  whose  tactics  you  cannot  fore- 
see. This  herd  might  be  simply  moving  a  few  miles  in 
search  of  a  new  feeding  ground,  or  it  might  be  making  one 
of  those  great  sweeping  marches  covering  hundreds  of 
miles  that  the  mysterious  elephant  people  make  at  the 
dictates  of  their  mysterious  instinct.  It  might  be  moving 
at  a  gentle  pace,  or  swifter  than  a  man  could  run.  A 
mile  on  the  new  route  they  came  on  a  broken  tree, 
a  great  tree  broken  down  as  if  by  a  storm;  the  fractures 
were  quite  recent.  The  elephant  folk  had  done  this. 
They  came  across  another  tree  whose  sides,  facing  north 
and  south,  had  been  clearly  barked,  and  the  pieces  of  the 
bark,  farther  on,  that  had  been  chewed  and  flung  away. 

With  one  stroke  of  a  tusk  passing  a  tree,  and  without 
stopping,  an  elephant  will  tear  off  a  strip  of  bark;  and 
it  was  curious  to  see  how  the  bark  of  this  tree  to  east  and 
west  was  intact.  The  moving  herd  had  not  stopped. 
Just  in  passing,  an  elephant  on  either  side  of  the  tree  had 
taken  his  slice  of  bark,  chewed  it  and  flung  it  away. 
There  were  also  small  trees  trodden  down  mercilessly 
under  foot.  Thus  the  great  track  of  the  herd  lay 
before  the  hunters,  but  not  a  sign  in  all  the  sunlit,  silent 
country  before  them  of  the  herd  itself. 

It  was  Berselius's  aim  to  crowd  up  his  men  as  quickly 
as  a  forced  march  could  do  it,  camp  and  then  pursue  the 
herd  with  a  few  swift  followers,  the  barest  possible  amount 
of  stores  and  one  tent. 

The  calabashes  and  the  water  bottles  had  been  rilled 
at  the  last  halt,  but  it  was  desirable  to  find  water  for  the 
evening's  camping  place. 


134  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

It  was  now  that  Berselius  showed  his  capacity  as  a 
driver  and  his  own  enormous  store  of  energy. 

He  took  the  tail  of  the  column,  and  woe  to  the  porters 
who  lagged  behind !  Felix  was  with  him,  and  Adams,  who 
was  heading  the  column,  could  hear  the  shouts  of  the 
Zappo  Zap.  The  men  with  their  loads  went  at  a  quick 
walk,  sometimes  breaking  into  a  trot,  urged  forward  by 
the  gun-butt  of  Felix. 

The  heat  was  sweltering,  but  there  was  no  rest.  On,  on, 
on,  ever  on  through  a  country  that  changed  not  at  all; 
the  same  breaks  and  ridges,  the  same  limitless  plains  of 
waving  grass,  the  same  scant  trees,  the  same  heat-shaken 
horizon  toward  which  the  elephant  road  led  straight, 
unwavering,  endless. 

The  brain  reeled  with  the  heat  and  the  dazzle,  but 
the  column  halted  not  nor  stayed.  The  energy  of  Berselius 
drove  it  forward  as  the  energy  of  steam  drives  an  engine. 
His  voice,  his  very  presence,  put  life  into  flagging  legs 
and  sight  into  dazzled  eyes.  He  spared  neither  himself 
nor  others;  the  game  was  ahead,  the  spoor  was  hot,  and 
the  panther  in  his  soul  drove  him  forward. 

Toward  noon  they  halted  for  two  hours  where  some 
bushes  spread  their  shade.  The  porters  lay  down  on  their 
bellies,  with  arms  outspread,  having  taken  a  draught  of 
water  and  a  bite  of  food;  they  lay  in  absolute  and  pro- 
found slumber.  Adams,  nearly  as  exhausted,  lay  on  his 
back.  Even  Felix  showed  signs  of  the  journey,  but 
Berselius  sat  right  back  into  the  bushes,  with  his  knees 
drawn  up  and,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  eastern  distance, 
brooded. 


FAR  INTO  ELEPHANT  LAND  135 

He  was  always  like  this  on  a  great  hunt,  when  the  game 
was  near.  Silent  and  brooding,  and  morose  to  the  point 
of  savagery. 

One  might  almost  have  fancied  that  in  far  distant  days 
this  man  had  been  a  tiger,  and  that  the  tiger  still  lived 
slumbering  in  his  soul,  triumphant  over  death,  driving 
him  forth  at  intervals  from  civilization  to  wander  in  the 
wild  places  of  the  earth  and  slay. 

Two  hours  past  noon  they  resumed  their  journey:  on, 
on,  on,  treading  the  elephant  track  which  still  went  due 
east  straight  as  an  arrow  to  the  blue  horizon.  The  fright- 
ful tiredness  they  had  felt  before  the  noonday  halt  had 
passed,  giving  place  to  a  dull,  dreamy  feeling,  such  as 
comes  after  taking  opium.  The  column  marched  mechan- 
ically and  without  thought,  knowing  only  two  things,  the 
feel  of  the  hard  ground  and  grass  beneath  their  feet,  and 
the  smiting  of  the  sun  on  their  backs. 

Thus  the  galley  slaves  of  old  laboured  at  their  oars  and 
the  builders  of  the  pyramids  beneath  their  loads,  all 
moving  like  one  man.  But  here  was  no  tune  of  flutes 
to  set  the  pace,  or  monotonous  song  to  help  the  lifting; 
only  the  voice  of  Berselius  like  a  whip-lash,  and  the  gun- 
butt  of  Felix  drumming  on  the  ribs  of  laggards. 

A  light,  hot  wind  was  blowing  in  their  faces.  Adams, 
still  at  the  head  of  the  column,  had  suffered  severely  dur- 
ing the  morning  march,  and  the  re-start  after  the  noon 
rest  was  painful  to  him  as  a  beating;  but  the  reserve  forces 
of  a  powerful  constitution  that  had  never  been  tampered 
with  were  now  coming  into  play,  and,  after  a  time,  he  felt 
little  discomfort.  His  body,  like  a  wound-up  mechanism, 


136  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

did  all  the  work;  his  mind  became  divorced  from  it;  he 
experienced  a  curious  exaltation,  like  that  which  comes 
from  drink,  only  finer  far  and  more  ethereal.  The  column 
seemed  marching  far  swifter  than  it  was  marching  in 
reality,  the  vast  sunlit  land  seemed  vaster  even  than  it 
was;  the  wind-blown  grass,  the  far  distant  trees,  the 
circling  skyline,  all  spoke  of  freedom  unknown  to  man: 
the  freedom  of  the  herd  they  were  pursuing;  the  freedom 
of  the  bird  flying  overhead ;  the  freedom  of  the  wind  blow- 
ing in  the  grass;  the  freedom  of  the  limitless,  endless, 
sunlit  country.  Meridians  of  silence,  and  light,  and 
plains,  and  trees,  and  mountains,  and  forests.  Parallels 
of  virgin  land. 

He  was  feeling  what  the  bird  knows  and  feels  when  it 
beats  up  the  mountains  or  glides  down  the  vales  of  air; 
what  the  elephant  herd  knows  and  feels  when  it  moves 
over  mountains  and  across  plains;  what  the  antelopes 
know  when  distance  calls  them. 

A  shout  from  Felix,  and  the  Zappo  Zap  came  running 
up  the  line;  his  head  was  flung  up  and  he  was  sniffing  the 
air.  Then,  walking  beside  Adams,  he  stared  ahead  right 
away  over  the  country  before  them  to  the  far  skyline. 

"Elephant  smell,"  he  replied,  when  Adams  asked  him 
what  was  the  matter;  then,  turning,  he  shouted  some 
words  in  the  native  back  to  Berselius,  and  tramped  on 
beside  Adams,  his  nose  raised  to  the  wind,  of  which  each 
puff  brought  the  scent  stronger. 

Adams  could  smell  nothing,  but  the  savage  could  tell 
that  right  ahead  there  were  elephants;  close  up,  too,  yet 
not  a  sign  of  them  could  be  seen. 


FAR  INTO  ELEPHANT  LAND  137 

This  puzzled  him,  and  what  puzzles  a  savage  frightens 
him. 

His  nose  told  him  that  here  were  elephants  in  sight  of 
his  eyes;  his  eyes  told  him  that  there  were  none. 

All  at  once  the  column  came  to  a  dead  halt.  Porters 
flung  down  their  loads  and  cried  out  in  fright.  Even 
Berselius  stood  stock-still  in  astonishment. 

From  the  air,  blown  on  the  wind  from  no  visible  source, 
came  the  shrill  trumpeting  of  an  elephant. 

There,  in  broad  daylight,  close  up  to  them,  the  sound 
came  with  the  shock  of  the  supernatural.  Nothing  stirred 
in  all  the  land  but  the  grass  bending  to  the  wind.  There 
was  not  even  a  bird  in  the  air;  yet  close  to  them  an  elephant 
was  trumpeting  shrilly  and  fiercely  as  elephants  trumpet 
when  they  charge. 

Again  came  the  sound,  and  once  again,  but  this  time  it 
broke  lamentably  to  a  complaint  that  died  away  to  silence. 

Instantly  the  Zappo  Zap  came  to  himself.  He  knew 
that  sound.  An  elephant  was  dying  somewhere  near  by, 
caught  in  a  trap  possibly.  He  rushed  down  the  line,  gun- 
butting  the  porters  back  to  their  places,  shouting  to 
Berselius,  helping  loads  up  on  the  heads  of  the  men 
who  had  dropped  them,  so  that  in  a  minute  the  column 
was  in  motion  again  and  going  swiftly  to  make  up  for 
lost  time. 

Five  minutes  brought  them  to  a  slight  rise  in  the  ground, 
beyond  which,  deep-cut,  rock-strewn  and  skeleton-dry, 
lay  the  bed  of  a  river. 

In  the  rains  this  would  be  scarcely  fordable,  but  now 
not  even  a  trickle  of  water  could  be  seen.  On  the  floor 


138  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

of  this  river-bed,  like  a  huge  dark  rock,  lay  the  body  of 
an  elephant. 

An  African  elephant  is  the  biggest  creature  on  earth, 
far  bigger  than  his  Indian  cousin,  and  far  more  formidable 
looking.  Adams  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  thing 
before  him  was  the  body  of  an  animal,  as  he  contrasted 
its  size  with  Felix,  who  had  raced  down  the  slope  and  was 
examining  the  carcass. 

"Dead!"  cried  Felix,  and  the  porters,  taking  heart, 
descended,  but  not  without  groaning  and  lamentations, 
for  it  is  well-known  to  the  natives  that  whoever  comes 
across  an  elephant  lying  down  must  die,  speedily  and  by 
violent  means;  and  this  elephant  was  lying  down  in  very 
truth,  his  tusks  humbly  lowered  to  the  ground,  his  great 
ears  motionless,  just  as  death  had  left  him. 

It  was  a  bull  and  surely,  from  his  size,  the  father  of  the 
herd.  Berselius  considered  the  beast  to  be  of  great  age. 
One  tusk  was  decayed  badly  and  the  other  was  chipped 
and  broken,  and  on  the  skin  of  the  side  were  several  of 
those  circular  sores  one  almost  always  finds  on  the  body 
of  a  rhinoceros,  "dundos,"  as  the  natives  call  them;  old 
scars  and  wounds  told  their  tale  of  old  battles  and  the 
wanderings  of  many  years. 

It  might  have  been  eighty  or  a  hundred  years  since 
the  creature  had  first  seen  the  light  and  started  on  its 
wonderful  journey  over  mountains  and  plains  through 
jungle  and  forest,  lying  down  maybe  only  twenty  times  in 
all  those  years,  wandering  hither  and  thither,  and  know- 
ing not  that  every  step  of  its  journey  was  a  step  closer 
to  here. 


FAR  INTO  ELEPHANT  LAND  139 

Just  this  little  piece  of  ground  on  which  it  lay  had  been 
plotted  out  for  it  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  it  had  come  to 
it  by  a  million  mazy  paths,  but  not  less  surely  than  had  it 
followed  the  leading  of  a  faultlessly  directed  arrow. 

The  herd  had  left  it  here  to  die.  Berselius,  examining 
the  body  closely,  could  find  no  wound.  He  concluded 
that  it  had  come  to  its  end  just  as  old  men  come  to  their 
end  at  last  —  the  mechanism  had  failed,  hindered,  per- 
haps, by  some  internal  disease,  and  it  had  lain  down  to 
wait  for  death. 

The  tusks  were  not  worth  taking,  and  the  party  pur- 
sued its  way  up  the  eastern  bank  of  the  river,  where  the 
herd  had  also  evidently  pursued  its  way,  and  then  on,  on, 
across  the  country  due  east,  in  the  track  they  had  followed 
since  morning. 

As  they  left  the  river-bed  a  tiny  dot  in  the  sky  above, 
which  they  had  not  noticed,  enlarged,  and  like  a  stone 
from  the  blue  fell  a  vulture.  It  lit  on  the  carcass;  then 
came  a  kite  slanting  down  to  the  feast,  and  then  from  the 
blue,  like  stones  dropped  from  the  careless  hand  of  a 
giant,  vulture  after  vulture. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   GREAT   HERD 

FELIX  kept  his  place  beside  Adams  at  the  head 
of  the  column.  The  black  seemed  morose,  and 
at  the  same  time,  excited. 

Two  things  had  disturbed  him:  the  bad  luck  of  meet- 
ing a  lying-down  elephant  and  the  fact  that  a  giraffe 
was  with  the  herd.  He  had  spotted  giraffe  spoor  in  the 
river-bed  where  the  ground  was  sandy  and  showed  up 
the  impression  well. 

Now,  the  giraffe  has  the  keen  eyesight  of  a  bird,  and 
when  he  throws  in  his  lot  with  the  elephant  folk  who, 
though  half -blind,  have  the  keen  scent  of  hounds,  the 
combination  is  bad  for  the  hunter. 

An  hour  before  sundown  they  struck  some  pools  beside 
which  grew  a  tree,  the  biggest  they  had  yet  come 
across,  and  here  Berselius  gave  the  order,  halt  and  camp. 

To  half  of  the  porters  it  was  an  order  to  fall  down 
flat,  their  loads  beside  them,  their  arms  outspread  abso- 
lutely broken  with  the  weariness  of  the  march,  broken, 
and  speechless,  and  motionless,  and  plunged  into  such  a 
depth  of  slumber  that  had  you  kicked  them  they  would 
not  have  moved. 

Berselius,  himself,  was  nearly  exhausted.  He  sat  with 

140 


THE  GREAT  HERD  141 

his  back  against  the  tree  and  gave  his  orders  in  a  languid 
voice,  and  it  was  very  curious  to  see  the  tents  going  up, 
\yielded  by  men  who  seemed  working  in  their  sleep, 
slowly  and  with  fumbling  fingers,  tripping  over  each  other, 
pausing,  hesitating,  yet  working  all  the  same,  and  all  in 
the  still  level  light  of  evening  that  lent  unreality  to  the 
scene. 

Luck  was  against  Berselius.  It  was  quite  within  the 
bounds  of  probability  that  the  herd  might  have  halted 
here  by  the  water  for  the  night;  but  they  had  not.  They 
had  drunk  here,  for  the  pool  was  all  trodden  up  and  still 
muddy,  and  then  gone  on. 

They  were  evidently  making  one  of  their  great  marches, 
and  it  was  probable  now  that  they  would  never  be  caught 
up  with.  Under  these  circumstances,  Berselius  deter- 
mined to  halt  for  the  night. 

Some  small  trees  and  bushes  were  cut  to  make  a  camp 
fire,  and  when  they  had  finished  supper  Berselius,  still 
with  his  back  to  the  tree,  sat  talking  to  Adams  by  the 
light  of  the  crackling  branches. 

He  did  not  seem  in  the  least  put  out  with  his  failure. 

"The  rains  will  be  on  us  in  a  week  or  two,"  said  he. 
"Then  you  will  see  elephants  all  over  this  place.  They 
lie  up  in  the  inaccessible  places  in  the  dry  season,  but 
when  the  wet  weather  comes  the  herds  spread  over  the 
plains.  Not  such  herds  as  the  one  we  have  been  fol- 
lowing —  it  is  rarely  one  comes  across  one  like  that. 
However,  to-morrow  we  may  have  better  luck  with  them. 
Felix  tells  me  that  forty  miles  beyond  there,  where  they 
have  gone,  there  are  a  lot  of  trees.  They  may  stop  and 


142  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

o> 

feed,  and  if  they  do,  we  will  have  them.  To-morrow 
I  shall  start  light.  Leave  the  main  camp  here.  You 
and  I  and  Felix,  and  four  of  the  best  of  those  men,  and 
the  smallest  tent,  enough  stores  for  three  or  four  days. 
Yes,  to-morrow —  The  man  dozed  off,  sleep-stricken, 

the  pipe  between  his  teeth. 

"To-morrow!"     Portentous  word! 

They  retired  to  their  tents.  Two  sentries  were  posted 
to  keep  the  fire  going  and  to  keep  watch.  The  porters 
lay  about,  looking  just  like  men  who  had  fallen  in  battle, 
and  after  awhile  the  sentries,  having  piled  the  fire  with 
wood,  sat  down,  and  the  moon  rose,  flooding  the  whole 
wide  land  with  light. 

She  had  scarcely  lifted  her  own  diameter  above  the 
horizon  when  the  sentries,  flat  on  their  backs,  with  arms 
extended,  were  sleeping  as  soundly  as  the  others.  Bril- 
liant almost  as  daylight,  still  and  peaceful  as  death, 
the  light  of  the  great  moon  flooded  the  land,  paling  the 
stars  and  casting  the  shadows  of  the  tents  across  the 
sleepers,  and  the  wind,  which  was  now  blowing  from  the 
west,  shook  the  twigs  of  the  tree,  like  skeleton  fingers, 
over  the  flicker  of  the  red  burning  camp-fire. 

Now,  the  great  herd  of  elephants  had  been  making, 
as  Berselius  imagined  possible,  for  the  forest  that  lay 
forty  miles  to  the  east. 

They  had  reached  it  before  sundown,  and  had  begun 
to  feed,  stripping  branches  of  their  leaves,  the  enor- 
mous trunks  reaching  up  like  snakes  and  whirling  the 
leaves  Catherine- wheellike  down  enormous  throats;  the 
purring  and  grumbling  of  their  cavernous  bellies,  the 


THE  GREAT  HERD  143 

rubbing  of  rough  shoulders  against  the  bark,  the  stamp- 
ing of  feet  crushing  the  undergrowth,  resounded  in  echoes 
amongst  the  trees.  The  big  bull  giraffe  that  had  cast 
its  lot  in  with  the  herd  was  busy,  too,  tearing  and  snap- 
ping down  twigs  and  leaves,  feeding  like  the  others,  who 
were  all  feeding  like  one,  even  to  the  eighteen-month- 
old  calves  busy  at  the  teats  of  their  enormous  dams. 

The  sunlight,  level  and  low,  struck  the  wonderful 
picture.  Half  the  herd  were  in  the  wood,  and  you  could 
see  the  tree  branches  bending  and  shaking  to  the  reach- 
ing trunks.  Half  the  herd  were  grazing  on  the  wood's 
edge,  the  giraffe  amidst  them,  its  clouded  body  burning 
in  the  sunset  against  the  green  of  the  trees. 

The  wind  was  blowing  steadily  along  the  edge  of  the 
wood  and  against  a  band  of  hunters  of  the  Congo  State, 
blacks  armed  with  rifles,  who  were  worming  their  way 
along  from  tree  bole  to  tree  bole,  till  within  shooting  dis- 
tance of  the  bull  elephant  nearest  to  them. 

The  creatures  feeding  knew  nothing  of  their  danger 
till  three  shots,  that  sounded  like  one,  rang  out,  and  the 
bull,  struck  in  the  neck,  the  shoulder,  and  between  the 
ear  and  eye,  fell,  literally  all  of  a  heap,  as  though  some 
giant's  scimitar  had  swept  its  legs  away  from  under  it. 

At  this  moment  the  sun's  lower  edge  had  just  touched 
the  horizon.  The  whole  visible  herd  on  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  at  the  sound  of  the  shots  and  the  crash  of  the  fall- 
ing bull,  wheeled,  trumpeted  wildly,  and  with  trunks 
swung  up,  ears  spread  wide,  swept  away  toward  the 
sunset,  following  the  track  by  which  they  had  come; 
whilst,  bursting  from  the  woods,  leaf-strewn,  with  green 


144  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

branches  tangled  in  their  tusks,  furious  and  mad  with 
fright,  came  the  remainder,  following  in  the  same  track, 
sweeping  after  the  others,  and  filling  the  air  with  the 
thunder  of  their  stampede. 

Shot  after  shot  rang  out,  but  not  an  elephant  was 
touched,  and  in  two  great  clouds,  which  coalesced,  the 
broken  herd  with  the  sound  of  a  storm  passed  away 
along  the  road  they  had  come  by,  the  night  closing  on 
them  as  the  sun  vanished  from  the  sky. 

Berselius  had  not  reckoned  on  this.  No  man  can 
reckon  on  what  the  wilderness  will  do.  The  oldest 
hunter  is  the  man  who  knows  most  surely  the  dramatic 
surprises  of  the  hunt,  but  the  oldest  hunter  would  never 
have  taken  this  into  his  calculations. 

Here,  back  along  the  road  they  had  travelled  all  day, 
was  coming,  not  a  peacefully  moving  herd,  but  a  storm 
of  elephants.  Elephants  who  had  been  disturbed  in 
feeding,  shot  at,  and  shot  after,  filled  with  the  dull  fury 
that  dwells  in  an  elephant's  brain  for  days,  and  with  the 
instinct  for  safety  that  would  carry  them  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred miles  before  dawn. 

And  right  in  the  track  of  this  terrible  army  of  de- 
struction lay  the  sleeping  camp,  the  camp  fire  smouldering 
and  fluttering  its  flames  on  the  wind. 

And  the  wind  had  shifted ! 

With  the  dark,  as  though  the  scene  had  been  skilfully 
prepared  by  some  infernal  dramatist,  just  as  the  cover  of 
night  shut  down  tight  and  sealed,  and  suddenly,  like  a 
box-lid  that  had  been  upheld  by  the  last  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  just  as  the  great  stars  burst  out  above  as  if  at 


THE  GREAT  HERD  145 

the  touch  of  an  electric  button,  the  wind  shifted  right 
round  and  blew  due  east. 

This  change  of  wind  would  dull  the  sound  of  the  oncom- 
ing host  to  the  people  at  the  camp;  at  the  same  time  it 
would  bring  the  scent  of  the  human  beings  to  the  elephants. 

The  effect  of  this  might  be  to  make  them  swerve  away 
from  the  line  they  were  taking,  but  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  tell  for  certain.  The  only  sure  thing  was,  that 
if  they  continued  in  their  course  till  within  eyeshot  of  the 
camp  fire,  they  would  charge  it  and  destroy  everything 
round  about  it  in  their  fury. 

A  camp  fire  to  an  angry  elephant  is  the  equivalent 
of  a  red  rag  to  a  bull. 

Thus  the  dramatic  element  of  uncertainty  was  intro- 
duced into  the  tragedy  unfolding  on  the  plains,  and  the 
great  stars  seemed  to  leap  like  expectant  hearts  of  fire 
till  the  moon  broke  over  the  horizon,  casting  the  flying 
shadows  of  the  great  beasts  before  them. 

The  first  furious  stampede  had  settled  into  a  rapid 
trot,  to  a  sound  like  the  sound  of  a  hundred  muffled  drums 
beating  a  rataplan. 

Instinct  told  the  herd  that  immediate  danger  was 
past,  also  that  for  safety  they  would  have  to  cover  an 
immense  space  of  country;  so  they  settled  to  the  pace 
most  suitable  for  the  journey.  And  what  a  pace  it  was, 
and  what  a  sight! 

Drifting  across  the  country  before  the  great  white 
moon,  fantastic  beasts  and  more  fantastic  shadows, 
in  three  divisions  line  ahead,  with  the  lanes  of  moon- 
light ruled  between  each  line;  calves  by  the  cows, 


146  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

bulls  in  the  van,  they  went,  keeping  to  the  scent  of  the 
track  they  had  come  by  as  unswervingly  as  a  train  keeps 
to  the  metals. 

The  giraffe  was  still  with  them.  He  and  his  shadow, 
gliding  with  compass-like  strides  a  hundred  yards  away 
from  the  southward  column;  and  just  as  the  scent  of  the 
camp  came  to  his  mammoth  friends,  the  sight  of  the  camp 
fire,  like  a  red  spark,  struck  his  keen  eyes. 

With  a  rasping  note  of  warning  he  swerved  to  the  south. 

Now  was  the  critical  moment.  Everything  lay  with  the 
decision  of  the  bulls  leading  the  van,  who,  with  trunks 
flung  up  and  crooked  forward,  were  holding  the  scent 
as  a  man  holds  a  line.  They  had  only  a  moment  of  time, 
but  he  who  knows  the  elephant  folk  knows  well  the  rapidity 
with  which  their  minds  can  reason,  and  from  their  action 
it  would  seem  that  the  arbiters  of  Berselius's  fate  reasoned 
thus:  "The  enemy  were  behind;  they  are  now  in  front. 
So  be  it.  Let  us  charge." 

And  they  charged,  with  a  blast  of  trumpeting  that 
shook  the  sky;  with  trunks  flung  up  and  forward-driving 
tusks,  ears  spread  like  great  sails,  and  a  sound  like  the 
thunder  of  artillery,  they  charged  the  scent,  the  body  of 
the  herd  following  the  leaders,  as  the  body  of  a  batter- 
ing-ram follows  the  head. 

Adams,  when  he  had  flung  himself  down  in  his  tent, 
fell  asleep  instantly.  This  sleep,  which  was  profound 
and  dreamless,  lasted  but  half  an  hour,  and  was  succeeded 
by  a  slumber  in  which,  as  in  a  darkened  room  where  a 
magic-lantern  is  being  operated,  vivid  and  fantastic  pic- 


THE  GREAT  HERD  147 

tures  arose  before  him.  He  was  on  the  march  with  the 
column  through  a  country  infinite  as  is  space;  the  road 
they  were  taking,  like  the  road  to  the  tombs  of  the  Chinese 
kings,  was  lined  on  either  side  with  animals  done  in  stone. 
At  first  these  were  tigers,  and  then,  as  though  some 
veil  of  illusion  had  been  withdrawn,  he  discovered  them 
to  be  creatures  far  larger  and  more  cruel,  remorseless, 
and  fearful  than  tigers ;  they  were  elephants  —  great 
stone  elephants  that  had  been  standing  there  under  the 
sun  from  everlasting,  and  they  dwindled  in  perspec- 
tive from  giants  to  pigmies  and  from  pigmies  to  grains  of 
sand,  for  they  were  the  guardians  of  a  road  whose  end 
was  infinity. 

Then  these  vanished,  but  the  elephant  country  under 
the  burning  sun  remained.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  the  sun-washed  spaces  of  wind-blown  grass, 
and  broken  ground,  and  scattered  trees,  till  across  the 
sky  in  long  procession,  one  following  the  other,  passed 
shadow  elephants.  Shadows  each  thrice  the  height  of  the 
highest  mountain,  and  these  things  called  forth  in  the 
mind  of  the  sleeper  such  a  horror  and  depth  of  dread  that 
he  started  awake  with  the  sweat  running  down  his  face. 

Sleep  was  shattered,  and  in  the  excitement  and  nerve- 
tension  of  over-tiredness  he  lay  tossing  on  his  back.  The 
long  march  of  the  day  before,  in  which  men  had  matched 
themselves  against  moving  mountains,  the  obsession  of 
the  things  they  had  been  pursuing,  had  combined  to 
shatter  sleep. 

He  came  out  in  the  open  for  a  breath  of  air. 

The  camp  was  plunged  in  slumber.     The  two  sentries 


148  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

ordered  by  Berselius  to  keep  watch  and  to  feed  the  fire 
lay  like  the  others,  with  arms  outspread ;  the  fire  was  burn- 
ing low,  as  though  drowned  out  by  the  flood  of  moon- 
light, and  Adams  was  on  the  point  of  going  to  the  pile  of 
fuel  for  some  sticks  to  feed  it,  when  he  saw  a  sight  which 
was  one  of  the  strangest,  perhaps,  that  he  would  ever  see. 

The  sentry  lying  on  the  right  of  the  fire  sat  up,  rose  to 
his  feet,  went  to  the  wood  pile,  took  an  armful  of  fuel 
and  flung  it  on  the  embers. 

The  fire  roared  up  and  crackled,  and  the  sleep-walker, 
who  had  performed  this  act  with  wide-staring  eyes  that 
saw  nothing,  returned  to  his  place  and  lay  down. 

It  was  as  if  the  order  of  Berselius  still  rang  in  his  ears 
and  the  vision  of  Berselius  still  dominated  his  mind. 

Adams,  thinking  of  this  strange  thing,  stood  with 
the  wind  fanning  his  face,  looking  over  the  country  to 
the  west,  the  country  they  had  traversed  that  day  in  tribu- 
lation under  the  burning  sun.  There  was  nothing  to 
tell  now  of  the  weary  march,  the  pursuit  of  phantoms, 
the  long,  long  miles  of  labour;  all  was  peaceful  and  coldly 
beautiful,  moonlit  and  silent. 

He  was  about  to  return  to  his  tent  when  a  faint  sound 
struck  his  ear.  A  faint,  booming  sound,  just  like  that 
which  troubles  us  when  the  eardrum  vibrates  on  its  own 
account  from  exhaustion  or  the  effect  of  drugs. 

He  stopped  his  ears  and  the  sound  ceased. 

Then  he  knew  that  the  sound  was  a  real  sound  borne 
on  the  air. 

He  thought  it  was  coming  to  him  on  the  wind,  which 
was  now  blowing  steadily  in  his  face,  and  he  strained 


THE  GREAT  HERD  149 

his  eyes  to  see  the  cause;  but  he  saw  nothing.  There 
was  no  cloud  in  the  sky  or  storm  on  the  horizon,  yet  the 
sound  was  increasing.  Boom,  boom,  becoming  deeper 
and  more  sonorous,  now  like  the  long  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
now  like  the  sea  bursting  in  the  sea-caves  of  a  distant 
coast,  or  the  drums  of  the  cyclone  when  they  beat  the 
charge  for  the  rushing  winds.  But  the  heart-searching 
feature  of  this  strange  booming  in  the  night  was  a  rhythm, 
a  pulsation  that  spoke  of  life.  This  was  no  dull  shift- 
ing of  matter,  as  in  an  earthquake,  or  of  air  as  in  a  storm; 
this  sound  was  alive. 

Adams  sprang  to  the  tent  where  Berselius  was  sleeping, 
and  dragged  him  out  by  the  arm,  crying,  "Listen!" 

He  would  have  cried,  "See!"  but  the  words  withered 
on  his  lips  at  the  sight  which  was  now  before  him  as  he 
faced  east. 

An  acre  of  rollicking  and  tossing  blackness  storming 
straight  for  the  camp  across  the  plain  under  the  thun- 
der that  was  filling  the  night.  A  thing  inconceivable 
and  paralyzing,  till  the  iron  grip  of  Berselius  seized  his 
arm,  driving  him  against  the  tree,  and  the  voice  of  Ber- 
selius cried,  "Elephants." 

In  a  moment  Adams  was  in  the  lower  branches  of  the 
great  tree,  and  scarcely  had  he  gained  his  position 
than  the  sky  split  with  the  trumpeting  of  the  charge  and, 
as  a  man  dying  sees  his  whole  life  with  one  glance,  he  saw 
the  whole  camp  of  awakened  sleepers  fly  like  wind-blown 
leaves  from  before  the  oncoming  storm,  leaving  only  two 
figures  remaining,  the  figures  af  Berselius  and  Felix. 

The  Zappo  Zap  had  gone  apart  from  the  camp  to 


150  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

sleep.  He  had  drugged  himself  by  smoking  hemp,  and 
he  was  lying  half  a  hundred  yards  away,  face  down  on 
the  ground,  dead  to  everything  in  earth  and  heaven. 

Berselius  had  spied  him. 

What  Adams  saw  then  was,  perhaps,  the  most  heroic 
act  ever  recorded  of  man.  The  soul-shattering  terror  of 
the  advancing  storm,  the  thunder  and  the  trumpeting  that 
never  ceased,  had  no  effect  on  the  iron  heart  of  Berselius. 

He  made  the  instantaneous  calculation  that  it  was 
just  possible  to  kick  the  man  awake  (for  sound  has  no 
effect  on  the  hemp-drugged  one)  and  get  him  to  the  tree 
and  a  chance  of  safety.  And  he  made  the  attempt. 

And  he  would  have  succeeded  but  that  he  fell. 

The  root  of  a  dead  tree,  whose  trunk  had  long  vanished, 
caught  his  foot  when  he  had  made  half  the  distance, 
ind  brought  him  down  flat  on  his  face. 

It  was  as  though  God  had  said,  "Not  so." 

Adams,  in  an  agony,  sweat  pouring  from  him,  watched 
Berselius  rise  to  his  feet.  He  rose  slowly  as  if  with 
deliberation,  and  then  he  stood  fronting  the  oncoming 
storm.  Whether  he  was  dazed,  or  whether  he  knew  that 
he  had  miscalculated  his  chances,  who  knows  ?  But  there 
he  stood,  as  if  disdaining  to  fly,  face  fronting  the  enemy. 
And  it  seemed  to  the  watcher  that  the  figure  of  that  man 
was  the  figure  of  a  god,  till  the  storm  closed  on  him,  and 
seized  and  swung  aloft  by  a  trunk,  he  was  flung  away  like 
a  stone  from  a  catapult  somewhere  into  the  night. 

Just  as  a  man  clings  to  a  mast  in  a  hurricane,  deaf, 
blind,  all  his  life  and  energy  in  his  arms,  Adams  clung 
to  the  tree  bole  above  the  branch  upon  which  he  was. 


THE  GREAT  HERD  151 

The  storm  below,  the  smashing  of  great  bodies  against 
the  tree,  the  trumpeting  whose  prolonged  scream  never 
ceased  —  all  were  nothing.  His  mind  was  cast  out  — 
he  had  flung  it  away  just  as  the  elephant  had  flung  Ber- 
selius  away.  To  him  the  universe  was  the  tree  to  which 
he  was  clinging,  just  that  part  which  his  arms  encircled. 

The  herd  had  attacked  in  three  columns,  keeping  the 
very  same  formation  as  they  had  kept  from  the  start. 
The  northern  column,  consisting  of  cows  with  their  calves, 
drove  on  as  if  to  safety,  the  others,  cows  and  bulls  — 
the  cows  even  more  ferocious  than  the  bulls  —  attacked 
the  camps,  the  tents,  and  the  fire.  They  stamped  and 
trod  the  fire  out,  smashing  tent  poles  and  chop  boxes, 
stores  and  cooking  utensils,  tusking  one  another  in  the 
tight-packed  rrieUe,  and  the  scream  of  the  trumpeting 
never  ceased. 

Then  they  drove  on. 

The  porters,  all  except  two,  had,  unhappily  for  them- 
selves, fled  in  a  body  to  the  west,  and  now  mixed  with 
the  trumpeting  and  thunder  could  be  heard  the  screams 
of  men  trodden  under  foot  or  tusked  to  pieces.  These 
sounds  ceased,  and  the  trumpeting  died  away,  and  noth- 
ing could  be  distinguished  but  the  dull  boom,  boom  of 
the  herd  sweeping  away  west,  growing  fainter  and  fainter, 
and  dying  away  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  BROKEN   CAMP 

THE  whole  thing  had  scarcely  lasted  twenty  minutes. 
During  the  storming  and  trumpeting,  Adams, 
clinging  to  the  tree,  had  felt  neither  terror  nor 
interest.  His  mind  was  cast  out,  all  but  a  vestige  of  it; 
this  remnant  of  mind  recognized  that  it  was  lying  in  the 
open  palm  of  Death,  and  it  was  not  afraid.  Not  only 
that,  but  it  felt  lazily  triumphant.  It  is  only  the  reason- 
ing mind  that  fears  death,  the  mind  that  can  still  say  to 
itself,  "What  will  come  after?"  The  intuitive  mind, 
which  does  not  reason,  has  no  fear. 

Had  not  the  herd  been  so  closely  packed  and  so  furious, 
Adams  would  have  been  smelt  out,  plucked  from  the  tree 
and  stamped  to  pieces  without  any  manner  of  doubt. 
But  the  elephants,  jammed  together,  tusking  each  other, 
and  rooting  the  camp  to  pieces,  had  passed  on,  not  know- 
ing that  they  had  left  a  living  man  behind  them. 

As  the  sound  of  the  storm  died  away,  he  came  to  his 
senses  as  a  man  comes  to  his  senses  after  the  inhalation 
of  ether,  and  the  first  thing  that  was  borne  in  upon  him 
was  the  fact  that  he  was  clinging  to  a  tree,  and  that  he 
could  not  let  go.  His  arms  encircled  the  rough  bark 
like  bands  of  iron;  they  had  divorced  themselves  from  his 

152 


THE  BROKEN  CAMP  153 

will  power,  they  held  him  there  despite  himself,  not  from 
muscular  rigidity  or  spasm,  but  just  because  they  refused 
to  let  go.  They  were  doing  the  business  of  clinging  to 
safety  on  their  own  account,  and  he  had  to  think  himself 
free.  There  was  no  use  in  ordering  them  to  release  him, 
he  had  to  reason  with  them.  Then,  little  by  little,  they 
(fingers  first)  returned  to  discipline,  and  he  slipped  down 
aad  came  to  earth,  literally,  for  his  knees  gave  under  him 
and  he  fell. 

He  was  a  very  brave  man  and  a  very  strong  man, 
but  now,  just  released  from  Death,  now  that  all  danger 
was  over,  he  was  very  much  afraid.  He  had  seen  and 
heard  Life:  Life  whipped  to  fury,  screaming  and  in 
maelstrom  action,  Life  in  its  loudest  and  most  appalling 
phase,  and  he  felt  as  a  man  might  feel  to  whom  the  gods 
had  shown  a  near  view  of  that  tempest  of  fire  we  call 
the  sun. 

He  sat  up  and  looked  around  him  on  the  pitiable  ruins 
of  the  camp  on  which  a  tornado  could  not  have  wrought 
more  destruction.  Something  lay  glittering  in  the  moon- 
light close  to  him.  He  picked  it  up.  It  was  his  shaving- 
glass,  the  most  fragile  thing  in  all  their  belongings,  yet 
unbroken.  Tent-poles  had  been  smashed  to  match- 
wood, cooking  utensils  trodden  flat,  guns  broken  to  pieces; 
yet  this  thing,  useless  and  fragile,  had  been  carefully 
preserved,  watched  over  by  some  god  of  its  own. 

He  was  dropping  it  from  his  fingers  when  a  cry  from 
behind  him  made  him  turn  his  head. 

A  dark  figure  was  approaching  in  the  moonlight 

It  was  the  Zappo  Zap.     The  man  whom  Berselius, 


154  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

with  splendid  heroism,  had  tried  to  save.  Like  the 
looking-glass,  and  protected,  perhaps,  by  some  god  of 
his  own,  the  columns  of  destruction  had  passed  him  by. 
The  column  of  cows  with  their  calves  had  passed  him 
on  the  other  side.  Old  hunters  say  that  elephants 
will  not  trouble  with  a  dead  man,  and  Felix,  though 
awakened  by  the  shaking  of  the  earth,  had  lain  like  a 
dead  man  as  the  storm  swept  by. 

He  was  very  much  alive,  now,  and  seemingly  uncon- 
cerned as  he  came  toward  Adams,  stood  beside  him, 
and  looked  around. 

"All  gone  dam,"  said  Felix.  And  volumes  would 
not  have  expressed  the  situation  more  graphically.  Then 
the  savage,  having  contemplated  the  scene  for  a  moment, 
rushed  forward  to  a  heap  of  stuff  —  broken  boxes  and 
what  not  —  dragged  something  from  it  and  gave  a  shout. 

It  was  the  big  elephant  rifle,  with  its  cartridge-bag 
attached.  The  stock  was  split,  but  the  thing  was  prac- 
tically intact.  Felix  waved  it  over  his  head  and  laughed 
and  whooped. 

"Gun!"  yelled  Felix. 

Adams  beckoned  to  him,  and  he  came  like  a  black  devil 
in  the  moonlight — a  black  devil  with  filed  teeth  and 
flashing  eyeballs  —  and  Adams  pointed  to  the  tree  and 
motioned  him  to  leave  the  gun  there  and  follow  him. 
Felix  obeyed,  and  Adams  started  in  the  direction  in  which 
he  had  seen  Berselius  flung. 

It  was  not  far  to  walk,  and  they  had  not  far  to  search. 
A  hundred  yards  took  them  to  a  break  in  the  ground, 
and  there  in  the  moonlight,  with  arms  extended,  lay  the 


THE  BROKEN  CAMP  155 

body  of  the  once  powerful  Berselius,  the  man  who  had 
driven  them  like  sheep,  the  man  whose  will  was  law. 
The  man  of  wealth  and  genius,  great  as  Lucifer  in  evil,  yet 
in  courage  and  heroism  tremendous.  God-man  or  devil- 
man,  or  a  combination  of  both,  but  great,  incontestably 
great  and  compelling. 

Adams  knelt  down  beside  the  body,  and  the  Zappo 
Zap  stood  by  with  incurious  eyes  looking  on. 

Berselius  was  not  dead.  He  was  breathing;  breath- 
ing deeply  and  stertorously,  as  men  breathe  in  apoplexy 
or  after  sunstroke  or  ruinous  injury  to  the  brain.  Adams 
tore  open  the  collar  of  the  hunting  shirt;  then  he  exam- 
ined the  limbs. 

Berselius,  flung  like  a  stone  from  a  catapult,  had, 
unfortunately  for  himself,  not  broken  a  limb.  That 
might  have  saved  him.  His  head  was  the  injured  part, 
and  Adams,  running  his  fingers  through  the  hair,  matted 
with  blood,  came  on  the  mischief.  The  right  parietal 
bone  was  dented  very  slightly  for  a  space  nearly  as  broad 
as  a  penny.  The  skin  was  broken,  but  the  bone  itself, 
though  depressed  slightly,  was  not  destroyed.  The  inner 
table  of  the  skull  no  doubt  was  splintered,  hence  the 
brain  mischief. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done  —  trephine. 
And  that  as  swiftly  as  possible. 

Everything  needful  was  in  the  instrument-case,  but 
had  it  escaped  destruction  ? 

He  raised  Berselius  by  the  shoulders.  Felix  took 
the  feet,  and  between  them  they  carried  the  body  to  the 
tree,  where  they  laid  it  down. 


156  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

/•v 

Before  starting  to  hunt  for  the  instruments,  Adams 
bled  Berselius  with  his  penknife.  The  effect  was  almost 
instantaneous.  The  breathing  became  less  stertorous  and 
laboured.  Then  he  started  to  search  hither  and  thither 
for  the  precious  mahogany  case  which  held  the  amputat- 
ing knives,  the  tourniquets  and  the  trephine.  The  Zappo 
Zap  was  no  use,  as  he  did  not  know  anything  about  the 
stores,  and  had  never  even  seen  the  instrument  case, 
so  Adams  had  to  conduct  the  search  alone,  in  a  hurry, 
and  over  half  an  acre  of  ground.  The  case  had  almost 
to  a  certainty  been  smashed  to  pieces;  still,  there  was  a 
chance  that  the  trephine  had  escaped  injury.  He  remem- 
bered the  shaving-glass,  and  how  it  had  been  miraculously 
preserved,  and  started  to  work.  He  came  across  a  flat 
oblong  disc  of  tin;  it  had  been  a  box  of  sardines,  it  was 
now  flattened  out  as  though  by  a  rolling  mill.  He  came 
across  a  bottle  of  brandy  sticking  jauntily  up  from  a  hole 
in  the  ground,  as  if  saying,  "Have  a  drink."  It  was 
intact.  He  knocked  the  head  off  and,  accepting  the 
dumb  invitation,  put  it  back  where  he  had  found  it, 
and  went  on. 

He  came  across  long  strips  of  the  green  rot-proof 
stuff  the  tents  had  been  made  of.  They  looked  as  though 
they  had  been  torn  up  like  this  for  rib-roller  bandages, 
for  they  were  just  of  that  width.  He  came  across  half  a 
mosquito-net;  the  other  half  was  sailing  away  north, 
streaming  from  the  tusk  of  a  bull  in  which  it  was  tangled, 
and  giving  him,  no  doubt,  a  sufficiently  bizarre  appear- 
ance under  the  quiet  light  of  the  moon  and  stars. 

There  were  several  chop  boxes  of  stores  intact;  and 


THE  BROKEN  CAMP  157 

a  cigar  box  without  a  crack  in  it,  and  also  without  a  cigar. 
It  looked  as  though  it  had  been  carefully  opened,  emptied, 
and  laid  down.  There  was  no  end  to  the  surprises  of  this 
search:  things  brayed  to  pieces  as  if  with  a  pestle  and 
mortar,  things  easily  smashable  untouched. 

He  had  been  searching  for  two  hours  when  he  found 
the  trephine.  It  lay  near  the  brass  lock  of  the  amputating 
case,  attached  to  which  there  were  some  pieces  of  mahog- 
any from  the  case  itself. 

A  trephine  is  just  like  a  corkscrew,  only  in  place  of 
the  screw  you  have  a  cup  of  steel.  This  steel  cup  has  a 
serrated  edge:  it  is,  in  fact,  a  small  circular  saw.  Apply- 
ing the  saw  edge  to  the  bone,  and  working  the  handle 
with  half  turns  of  the  wrist,  you  can  remove  a  disc  from 
the  outer  table  of  the  skull  just  as  a  cook  stamps  cakes 
out  of  a  sheet  of  dough  with  a  "cutter." 

Adams  looked  at  the  thing  in  his  hands;  the  cup  of 
chilled  steel,  thin  as  paper  and  brittle  as  glass,  had  been 
smashed  to  pieces,  presumably;  at  all  events,  it  was  not 
there. 

He  flung  the  handle  and  the  shaft  away  and  came  back 
to  the  tree  beneath  which  the  body  of  Berselius  was 
lying.  Berselius,  still  senseless,  was  breathing  deeply 
and  slowly,  and  Adams,  having  cut  away  the  hair  of  the 
scalp  round  the  wound  with  his  penknife,  went  to  the 
pool  for  water  to  bathe  the  wound;  but  the  pool  was 
trodden  up  into  slush,  and  hours  must  elapse  before  the 
mud  would  settle.  He  remembered  the  bottle  of  brandy, 
fetched  it,  washed  the  wound  with  brandy,  and  with 
his  handkerchief  torn  into  three  pieces  bound  it  up. 


158  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done;  and  he  sat  down 
with  his  back  to  the  tree  to  wait  for  dawn. 

The  bitterness  of  the  thing  was  in  his  heart,  the  bit- 
terness of  being  there  with  hands  willing  and  able  to  help, 
yet  helpless.  A  surgeon  is  as  useless  without  his  instru- 
ments as  the  cold,  lifeless  instruments  are  without  a  hand 
to  guide  them.  It  is  not  his  fault  that  his  hands  are  tied, 
but  if  he  is  a  man  of  any  feeling,  that  does  not  lessen  the 
anguish  of  the  situation. 

Adams,  listening  to  the  breathing  of  the  man  he  could 
not  save,  sat  watching  the  moonlit  desert  where  the  grass 
waved  in  the  wind.  Felix,  lying  on  his  belly,  had  resumed 
his  slumbers,  and  beside  the  sleeping  savage  lay  the  thing 
he  worshipped  more  than  his  god,  the  big  elephant  rifle, 
across  the  stock  of  which  his  naked  arm  was  flung. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   FEAST  OF   THE   VULTURES 

A)AMS?  who  had  fallen  asleep,  was  awakened  by  a 
whoop  from  Felix. 

It  was  full,  blazing  day,  and  the  Zappo  Zap, 
standing  erect  just  as  he  had  sprung  from  sleep,  was  star- 
ing with  wrinkled  eyes  straight  out  across  the  land.  Two 
black  figures  were  approaching.  They  were  the  two  por- 
ters who  had  fled  westward,  and  who,  with  Felix,  were 
all  that  remained  of  Berselius's  savage  train  of  followers. 
The  rest  were  over  there 

Over  there  to  the  west,  where  vultures  and  marabouts 
and  kites  were  holding  a  clamorous  meeting;  over  there, 
where  the  ground  was  black  with  birds. 

The  two  wretches  approaching  the  camping  place 
rolled  their  eyes  in  terror,  glancing  over  there.  They 
had  run  for  miles  and  hidden  themselves  in  a  donga. 
They  had  heard  the  tragedy  from  afar,  the  storming  and 
trumpeting,  and  the  shrieks  of  men  being  destroyed, 
torn  to  pieces,  trampled  to  pulp ;  they  had  heard  the  thun- 
der of  the  vanishing  herd,  and  they  had  listened  to  the 
awful  silence  that  followed,  lying  on  their  faces,  clinging 
to  the  breast  of  their  old,  cold,  cruel  Mother  Earth.  With 
day,  like  homing  pigeons,  they  had  returned  to  the  camp. 

159 


160  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"Hi  yi!"  yelled  Felix,  and  a  response  came  like  the 
cry  of  a  seagull.  They  were  shivering  as  dogs  shiver 
when  ill  or  frightened;  their  teeth  were  chattering,  and 
they  had  a  curious  gray,  dusky  look;  the  very  oil  of  their 
skins  seemed  to  have  dried  up,  and  old  chain  scars  on 
their  necks  and  ankles  showed  white  and  leprous-looking 
in  the  bright  morning  sunshine. 

But  Adams  had  no  time  to  attend  to  them.  Having 
glanced  in  their  direction,  he  turned  to  Berselius,  bent 
over  him,  and  started  back  in  surprise. 

Berselius 's  eyes  were  open;  he  was  breathing  regularly 
and  slowly,  and  he  looked  like  a  man  who,  just  awakened 
from  sleep,  was  yet  too  lazy  to  move. 

Adams  touched  him  upon  the  shoulder,  and  Berselius, 
raising  his  right  hand,  drew  it  over  his  face  as  if  to  chase 
away  sleep.  Then  his  head  dropped,  and  he  lay  looking 
up  at  the  sky.  Then  he  yawned  twice,  deeply,  and  turn- 
ing his  head  on  his  left  shoulder  looked  about  him  lazilyj 
his  eyes  resting  here  and  there:  on  the  two  porters  who 
were  sitting,  with  knees  drawn  up,  eating  some  food  which 
Felix  had  given  them;  on  the  broken  camp  furniture 
and  the  heaps  of  raffle  left  by  the  catastrophe  of  the 
night  before;  on  the  skyline  where  the  grass  waved  against 
the  morning  blue. 

Adams  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  man  had  only 
been  stunned.  None  of  the  vital  centres  of  the  brain 
had  been  injured.  Some  injury  there  must  be,  but  the 
main  springs  of  life  were  intact.  There  was  no  paralysis, 
for  now  the  sick  man  was  raising  his  left  hand,  and, 
moving  about  as  a  person  moves  in  bed  to  get  a  more 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  VULTURES         161 

comfortable  position,  he  raised  both  knees  and  then, 
turning  over  on  his  right  side,  straightened  them  out  again. 
Now,  by  the  movements  of  a  sick  person  you  can  tell 
pretty  nearly  the  condition  of  his  brain. 

All  the  movements  of  this  sick  man  were  normal; 
they  indicated  great  tiredness,  nothing  more.  The  shock 
and  the  loss  of  blood  might  account  for  that.  Adams 
the  night  before  had  made  a  pillow  from  his  own  coat  for 
the  stricken  one's  head;  he  was  bending  now  to  rearrange 
it,  but  he  desisted.  Berselius  was  asleep. 

Adams  remained  on  his  knees  for  a  moment  contem- 
plating his  patient  with  deep  satisfaction.  Then  he  rose 
to  his  feet.  Some  shelter  must  be  improvised  to  protect 
the  sleeping  man  from  the  sun,  but  in  the  raffle  around 
there  did  not  seem  enough  tent  cloth  to  make  even  an 
umbrella. 

Calling  Felix  and  the  two  porters  to  follow  him,  he 
started  off,  searching  amidst  the  debris  here  and  there, 
setting  the  porters  to  work  to  collect  the  remains  of  the 
stores  and  to  bring  them  back  to  the  tree,  hunting  in  vain 
for  what  he  wanted,  till  Felix,  just  as  they  reached  the 
northern  limit  of  destruction,  pointed  to  where  the  bkds 
were  still  busy,  clamorous  and  gorging. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Adams. 

"Tent,"  replied  Felix. 

To  the  left  of  where  the  birds  were,  and  close  to  them, 
lay  a  mound  of  something  showing  dark  amidst  the  grass. 
It  was  a  tent,  or  a  large  part  of  one  of  the  tents;  tangled, 
perhaps,  in  a  tusk,  it  had  been  brought  here  and  cast,  just 
as  a  storm  might  have  brought  and  cast  it.  Even  at 


162  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

this  distance  the  air  was  tainted  with  the  odour  of  the 
birds  and  their  prey,  but  the  thing  had  to  be  fetched, 
and  Adams  was  not  the  man  to  exhibit  qualms  before 
a  savage. 

"Come,"  said  he,  and  they  started. 

The  birds  saw  them  coming,  and  some  flew  away; 
others,  trying  to  fly  away,  rose  in  the  air  heavily  and 
fluttering  a  hundred  yards  sank  and  scattered  about  in 
the  grass,  looking  like  great  vermin;  a  few  remained 
waddling  here  and  there,  either  too  impudent  for  flight 
or  too  greatly  gorged. 

Truly  it  had  been  a  great  killing,  and  the  ground  was 
ripped  as  if  by  ploughs.  Over  a  hundred  square  yards 
lay  blistering  beneath  the  sun,  red  and  blue  and  black; 
and  the  torment  of  it  pierced  the  silence  like  a  shout, 
though  not  a  movement  was  there,  save  the  movement  of 
the  bald-headed  vulture  as  he  waddled,  or  the  flapping  of 
a  rag  of  skin  to  the  breeze. 

They  seized  on  the  tent,  the  Zappo  Zap  laughing  and 
with  teeth  glinting  in  the  sun.  It  was  the  smallest  tent, 
ripped  here  and  there,  but  otherwise  sound ;  the  mosquito 
net  inside  was  intact  and  rolled  up  like  a  ball,  but  the 
pole  was  broken  in  two. 

As  they  carried  it  between  them,  they  had  to  pass  near 
a  man.  He  was  very  dead,  that  man;  a  great  foot  had 
trodden  on  his  face,  and  it  was  flattened  out,  looking  like 
a  great  black  flat-fish  in  which  a  child,  for  fun,  had 
punched  holes  for  eyes  and  mouth  and  nose;  it  was  curl- 
ing up  at  the  edges  under  the  sun's  rays,  becoming 
converted  into  a  cup. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  VULTURES         163 

"B'selius,"  said  Felix,  with  a  laugh,  indicating  this 
thing  as  they  passed  it. 

Adams  had  his  hands  full,  or  he  would  have  struck 
the  brute  to  the  ground.  He  contented  himself  with 
driving  the  tent  pole  into  the  small  of  his  back  to  urge 
him  forward.  From  that  moment  he  conceived  a  hatred 
for  Felix  such  as  few  men  have  felt,  for  it  was  not  a  hatred 
against  a  man,  or  even  a  brute,  but  a  black  automatic 
figure  with  filed  teeth,  a  thing  with  the  brain  and  heart 
of  an  alligator,  yet  fashioned  after  God's  own  image. 

A  hatred  for  Felix,  and  a  pity  for  Berselius. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    LOST   GUIDE 

THEY  improvised  a  shelter  against  the  tree  with  the 
tent  cloth  over  the  sleeping  man,  and  then  Adams 
set  Felix  to  work  splicing  and  mending  the  tent 
pole.     The  two  porters,  who  had  stuffed  themselves  with 
food,   were   looking   better  and   a  shade   more   human; 
the  glossy  look  was  coming  back  to  their  skins  and  the 
fright  was  leaving  their  faces.     He  set  them  to  work, 
piling  the  recovered  stores  in  the  bit  of  shade  cast  by  the 
tree  and  the  improvised  tent,  and  as  they  did  so  he  took 
toll  of  the  stuff. 

He  judged  that  there  was  enough  provisions  to  take 
them  back  along  the  road  they  had  come  by.  The  hunt 
was  ended.  Even  should  Berselius  recover  fully  in  a 
couple  of  days,  Adams  determined  to  insist  on  a  return. 
But  he  did  not  expect  any  resistance. 

It  was  a  long,  long,  wearisome  day.  The  great  far- 
stretching  land,  voiceless  except  just  over  there  where 
birds  were  still  busy  and  would  be  busy  till  all  was  gone; 
the  cloudless  sky,  and  the  shifting  shadow  of  the 
tree;  these  were  the  best  company  he  had.  The  blacks 
were  not  companions.  The  two  porters  seemed  less 
human  than  dogs,  and  Felix  poisoned  his  sight. 

164 


THE  LOST  GUIDE  165 

His  dislike  for  this  man  had  been  steadily  growing. 
The  thought  that  Berselius  had  risked  his  life  for  this 
creature,  and  the  remembrance  of  how  he  had  pointed  to 
the  dead  man  with  a  grin  and  said  "B'selius,"  had  brought 
matters  to  a  head  in  the  mind  of  Adams,  and  turned  his 
dislike  into  a  furious  antipathy.  He  sat  now  in  what 
little  shadow  there  was,  watching  the  figure  of  the 
Zappo  Zap. 

Felix,  the  tent-pole  finished,  had  slunk  off  westward, 
hunting  about,  or  pretending  to  hunt  for  salvage.  Little 
by  little  the  black  figure  dwindled  till  it  reached  where 
the  birds  were  discoursing  and  clamouring,  and  Adams 
felt  his  blood  grow  cold  as  he  watched  the  birds  rise  like 
a  puff  of  black  smoke  and  scatter,  some  this  way,  some 
that;  some  flying  right  away,  some  settling  down  near  by. 

The  black  figure,  a  tiny  sketch  against  the  sky,  wan- 
dered hither  and  thither,  and  then  vanished. 

Felix  had  sat  him  down. 

Adams  rose  up  and  took  the  elephant  rifle,  took  from 
the  bag  a  great  solid  drawn  brass  cartridge,  loaded  the 
rifle,  and  sat  down  again  in  the  shade. 

Berselius  was  sleeping  peacefully.  He  could  hear  the 
even  respirations  through  the  tent  cloth.  The  porters 
were  sleeping  in  the  sun  as  only  niggers  can  sleep  when 
they  are  tired ;  but  Adams  was  feeling  as  if  he  could  never 
sleep  again,  as  he  sat  waiting  and  watching  and  listening 
to  the  faint  whisper,  whisper  of  the  grass  as  the  wind  bent 
it  gently  in  its  passage. 

A  long  time  passed,  and  then  the  black  sketch  appeared 
again  outlined  on  the  sky.  It  grew  in  size,  and  as  it  grew 


166  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Adams  fingered  the  triggers  of  the  gun,  and  his  lips  became 
as  dry  as  sand,  so  that  he  had  to  lick  them  and  keep  on 
licking  them,  till  his  tongue  became  dry  as  his  lips  and  his 
palate  dry  as  his  tongue. 

Then  he  rose  up,  rifle  in  hand,  for  the  Zappo  Zap  had 
come  to  speaking  distance.  Adams  advanced  to  meet 
him.  There  was  a  dry,  dull  glaze  about  the  creature's 
lips  and  chin  that  told  a  horrible  story,  and  at  the  sight 
of  it  the  white  man  halted  dead,  pointed  away  to 
where  the  birds  were  again  congregating,  cried  "Gr-r-r," 
as  a  man  cries  to  a  dog  that  has  misbehaved,  and  flung 
the  rifle  to  his  shoulder. 

Felix  broke  away  and  ran.  Ran,  striking  eastward, 
and  bounding  as  a  buck  antelope  bounds  with  a  leopard 
at  its  heels,  whilst  the  ear-shattering  report  of  the  great 
rifle  rang  across  the  land  and  a  puff  of  white  dust  broke 
from  the  ground  near  the  black  bounding  figure.  Adams, 
cursing  himself  for  having  missed,  grounded  the  gun- 
butt  and  stood  watching  the  dot  in  the  distance  till  it 
vanished  from  sight. 

He  had  forgotten  the  fact  that  Felix  was  the  guide 
and  that  without  him  the  return  would  be  a  hazardous 
one;  but  had  he  remembered  this,  it  would  have  made 
no  difference.  Better  to  die  in  the  desert  twenty  times 
over  than  to  return  escorted  by  that. 

It  was  now  getting  toward  sundown.  The  great 
elephant  country  in  which  the  camp  lay  lost  had,  dur- 
ing the  daytime,  three  phases.  Three  spirits  presided 
over  this  place;  the  spirit  of  morning,  of  noon,  and  of 
evening. 


THE  LOST  GUIDE  167 

In  towns  and  cities,  even  in  the  open  country  of  civilized 
lands,  these  three  are  clad  in  language  and  bound  in 
chains  of  convention,  reduced  to  slaves  whose  task  is  to 
call  men  to  rise,  to  eat,  or  sleep.  But  here,  in  this  vast 
place,  one  saw  them  naked  —  naked  and  free  as  when 
they  caught  the  world's  first  day,  like  a  new-minted 
coin  struck  from  darkness,  and  spun  it  behind  them 
into  night. 

Under  the  presidency  of  these  three  spirits  the  land 
was  ever  changing;  the  country  of  the  morning  was  not 
the  country  of  the  noon,  nor  was  the  country  of  the 
noon  the  country  of  the  evening. 

The  morning  was  loud.  I  can  express  it  in  no  other 
terms.  Dawn  came  like  a  blast  of  trumpets,  driving 
the  flocks  of  the  red  flamingoes  before  it,  tremendous,  and 
shattering  the  night  of  stars  at  the  first  fanfare.  A 
moment  later,  and,  changing  the  image,  imagination 
could  hear  the  sea  of  light  bursting  against  the  far  edge  of 
the  horizon,  even  as  you  watched  the  spindrift  of  it  surg- 
ing up  to  heaven  and  the  waves  of  it  breaking  over  ridge 
and  tree  and  plain  of  waving  grass. 

Noon  was  the  hour  of  silence.  Under  the  pyramid 
of  light  the  land  lay  speechless,  without  a  shadow  except 
the  shadow  of  the  flying  bird,  or  a  sound  except  the  sigh 
of  the  grass,  touched  and  bent  by  the  wind,  if  it  blew. 

Evening  brought  with  it  a  new  country.  There  was 
no  dusk  here,  no  beauties  of  twilight,  but  the  level  light 
of  sunset  brought  a  beauty  of  its  own.  Distance  stood 
over  the  land,  casting  trees  farther  away,  and  spread- 
ing the  prairies  of  grass  with  her  magic. 


168  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

The  country,  now,  had  a  new  population.  The 
shadows.  Nowhere  else,  perhaps,  do  shadows  grow  and 
live  as  here,  where  the  atmosphere  and  the  level  light  of 
evening  combine  to  form  the  quaintest  shadows  on  earth. 
The  giraffe  has  for  his  counterpart  a  set  of  shadow  legs 
ten  yards  long,  and  the  elephant  in  his  shadow  state  goes 
on  stilts.  A  man  is  followed  by  a  pair  of  black  com- 
passes, and  a  squat  tent  flings  to  the  east  the  shadow  of 
a  sword. 

Adams  was  sitting  looking  at  the  two  porters  whom 
he  had  set  to  hunt  for  firewood;  he  was  watching  their 
grotesque  figures,  and  more  than  grotesque  shadows, 
when  a  movement  of  the  sick  man  under  the  tent-cloth 
caused  him  to  turn. 

Berselius  had  awakened.  More  than  that,  he  was 
sitting  up,  and  before  Adams  could  put  up  a  hand,  the 
tent- cloth  was  flung  back,  and  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  sick  man  appeared. 

His  face  was  pale,  his  hair  in  disorder;  but  his  con- 
sciousness had  fully  returned.  He  recognized  Adams 
with  a  glance,  and  then,  without  speaking,  struggled 
to  free  himself  of  the  tent-cloth  and  get  on  his  feet. 

Adams  helped  him. 

Berselius,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  companion,  looked 
around  him,  and  then  stood  looking  at  the  setting  sun. 

The  glorious  day  was  very  near  its  end.  The  sun 
huge  and  half-shorn  of  his  beams,  was  sinking  slowly, 
inevitably;  scarce  two  diameters  divided  his  lower  edge 
from  the  horizon  that  was  thirsting  for  him  as  the  grave 
thirsts  for  man.  Thus  fades,  shorn  of  its  dazzle  and 


THE  LOST  GUIDE  169 

splendour,  the  intellect  so  triumphant  at  noon,  the  per- 
sonality, the  compelling  will;  the  man  himself  when  night 
has  touched  him. 

"Are  you  better?"  asked  Adams. 

Berselius  made  no  reply. 

Like  a  child,  held  by  some  glittering  bauble,  he  seemed 
fascinated  by  the  sun.  The  western  sky  was  marked 
by  a  thin  reef  of  cloud;  dull  gold,  it  momentarily  brightened 
to  burnished  gold,  and  then  to  fire. 

The  sun  touched  the  horizon.  Ere  one  could  say 
" Look! "  he  was  half  gone.  The  blazing  arc  of  his  upper 
limb  hung  for  a  moment  palpitating,  then  it  dwindled 
to  a  point,  vanished,  and  a  wave  of  twilight,  like  the 
shadow  of  a  wing,  passed  over  the  land. 

As  Berselius,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  companion, 
turned,  it  was  already  night. 

The  camp  fire  which  the  porters  had  lit  was  crackling, 
and  Berselius,  helped  by  his  friend,  sat  down  with  his 
back  to  the  tree  and  his  face  toward  the  fire. 

"Are  you  better?"  asked  Adams,  as  he  took  a  seat 
beside  him  and  proceeded  to  light  a  pipe. 

"My  head,"  said  Berselius.  As  he  spoke  he  put 
his  hand  to  his  head  as  a  person  puts  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  when  he  is  dazed. 

"  Have  you  any  pain  ?  " 

"No,  no  pain,  but  there  is  a  mist." 

"  You  can  see  all  right  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  can  see.  It  is  not  my  sight,  but  there  is 
a  mist  —  in  my  head." 

Adams  guessed  what  he  meant.     The  man's  mind  had 


170  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

been  literally  shaken  up.  He  knew,  too,  that  thought 
and  mental  excitement  were  the  worst  things  for  him. 

"Don't  think  about  it,"  said  he.  "It  will  pass.  You 
have  had  a  knock  on  the  head.  Just  lean  back  against 
the  tree,  for  I  want  to  dress  the  wound." 

He  undid  the  bandage,  fetched  some  water  from  the 
pool,  which  was  now  clear,  and  set  to  work.  The  wound 
was  healthy  and  seemed  much  less  severe  than  it  had 
seemed  the  night  before.  The  dent  in  the  bone  seemed 
quite  inconsiderable.  The  inner  table  of  the  skull  might, 
after  all,  be  not  injured.  One  thing  was  certain:  whatever 
mischief  the  cortex  of  the  brain  had  suffered,  the  prime 
centres  had  escaped*  Speech  and  movement  were  per- 
fect and  thought  was  rational. 

"There,"  said  Adams,  when  he  had  finished  his  dress- 
ings and  taken  his  seat,  "you  are  all  right  now.  But 
don't  talk  or  do  any  thinking.  The  mist,  as  you  call  it, 
in  your  head  will  pass  away." 

"I  can  see,"  said  Berselius;  then  he  stopped,  hesitated, 
and  went  on  —  "I  can  see  last  night  —  I  can  see  us  all 
here  by  the  camp  fire,  but  beyond  that  I  cannot  see,  for 
a  great  white  mist  hides  everything.  And  still "  —  he 
burst  out  —  "I  seem  to  know  everything  hidden  by  that 
mist,  but  I  can't  see,  I  can't  see.  What  is  this  thing  that 
has  happened  to  me  ?  " 

"You  know  your  name?" 

"Yes,  my  name  is  Berselius,  just  as  your  name  is  Adams. 
My  mind  is  clear,  my  memory  is  clear,  but  I  have  lost  the 
sight  of  memory.  Beyond  the  camp  fire  of  last  night, 
everything  is  a  thick  mist  —  I  ain  afraid !  " 


THE  LOST  GUIDE  171 

He  took  Adams's  big  hand,  and  the  big  man  gulped 
suddenly  at  the  words  and  the  action. 

The  great  Berselius  afraid!  The  man  who  had  faced 
the  elephants,  the  man  who  cared  not  a  halfpenny  for 
death,  the  man  who  was  so  far  above  the  stature  of  other 
men,  sitting  there  beside  him  and  holding  his  hand  like 
a  little  child,  and  saying,  "I  am  afraid!" 

And  the  voice  of  Berselius  was  not  the  voice  of  the 
Berselius  of  yesterday.  It  had  lost  the  decision  and  com- 
manding tone  that  made  it  so  different  from  the  voices  of 
common  men. 

"It  will  pass,"  said  Adams.  "It  is  only  a  shake-up 
of  the  brain.  Why,  I  have  seen  a  man  after  a  blow  on 
the  head  with  his  memory  clean  wiped  out.  He  had  to 
learn  his  alphabet  again." 

Berselius  did  not  reply.  His  head  was  nodding  for- 
ward in  sleep.  He  had  slept  all  day,  but  sleep  had  taken 
him  again  suddenly,  just  as  it  takes  a  child,  and  Adams 
placed  him  under  the  improvised  tent  with  the  coat  for 
a  pillow  under  his  head,  and  then  sat  by  the  fire. 

Memory  of  all  things  in  this  wonderful  world  is  surely 
the  most  wonderful.  It  is  there  now,  and  the  next 
moment  it  is  not.  You  leave  your  house  in  London,  and 
you  are  next  found  in  Brighton,  sane  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  but  your  memory  is  gone.  A  dense  fog  hides 
everything  you  have  ever  done,  dreamed  or  spoken. 
You  may  have  committed  crimes  in  your  past  life,  or  you 
may  have  been  a  saint.  It  is  all  the  same,  for  the  moment, 
until  the  mist  breaks  up  and  your  past  reappears. 

Berselius's   case  was  a  phase  of  this  condition.     He 


172  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

knew  his  name  —  everything  lay  before  his  mind  up  to 
a  certain  point.  Beyond  that,  he  knew  all  sorts  of  things 
were  lying,  but  he  could  not  see  them.  To  use  his  own 
eloquent  expression,  he  had  lost  the  sight  of  memory. 

If  you  recall  your  past,  it  comes  in  pictures.  You 
have  to  ransack  a  great  photographic  gallery.  Before 
you  can  think,  you  must  see. 

Beyond  a  certain  point  Berselius  had  lost  the  sight 
of  memory,  In  other  words,  he  had  lost  his  past. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BEYOND   THE   SKYLINE 

ADAMS,  wearied  to  death  with  the  events  of  the 
past  day  and  night,  slept  by  the  camp  fire  the 
deep  dreamless  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  He 
had  piled  the  fire  with  wood,  using  broken  boxes,  slow- 
burning  vangueria  brushwood,  and  the  remains  of  a 
ruined  mimosa  tree  that  lay  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
camp,  and  he  lay  by  it  now  as  soundly  asleep  as  the  two 
porters  and  Berselius.  The  fire  stood  guard;  crackling 
and  flickering  beneath  the  stars,  it  showed  a  burning  spark 
that  made  the  camping  place  determinable  many  miles 
away. 

Now  the  Zappo  Zap,  when  he  had  fled  from  Adams, 
put  ten  miles  of  country  behind  him,  going  almost  with 
the  swiftness  of  an  antelope,  taking  low  bush  and  broken 
ground  in  his  stride,  and  halting  only  when  instinct  brought 
him  to  a  stand,  saying,  "You  are  safe." 

He  knew  the  country  well,  and  the  thirty  miles  that 
separated  him  from  the  eastern  forest,  where  he  could 
obtain  food  and  shelter,  were  nothing  to  him.  He  could 
have  run  nearly  the  whole  distance  and  reached  there  in 
a  few  hours'  time. 

But  time  was  also  nothing  to  him.    He  had  fed  well, 

173 


174  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

and  could  last  two  days  without  food.  It  was  not  his 
intention  to  desert  the  camp  yet;  for  at  the  camp,  under 
that  tree  away  to  the  west,  lay  a  thing  that  he  lusted 
after  as  men  lust  for  drink  or  love:  the  desire  of  his  dark 
soul  —  the  elephant  gun. 

Before  Adams  drove  him  away  from  the  camp  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  steal  it.  Sneak  off  with  it  in  the 
night  and  vanish  with  it  into  his  own  country  away  to  the 
northeast,  leaving  B'selius  and  his  broken  camp  to  fend 
for  themselves.  This  determination  was  still  unshaken; 
the  thing  held  him  like  a  charm,  and  he  sat  down,  squat- 
ting in  the  grass  with  his  knees  drawn  up  to  his  chin  and 
his  eyes  fixed  westward,  waiting  for  evening. 

An  hour  before  sunset  he  made  for  the  camp,  reach- 
ing within  a  mile  of  it  as  the  light  left  the  sky.  He  watched 
the  camp  fire  burning,  and  made  for  it.  Toward  mid- 
night, crawling  on  his  belly,  soundless  as  a  snake,  he 
crept  right  up  beside  Adams,  seized  the  gun  and  the 
cartridge  bag,  and  with  them  in  his  hands  stood  erect. 

He  had  no  fear  now.  He  knew  he  could  outrun  any- 
one there.  He  held  the  gun  by  the  barrels.  Adams's 
white  face,  as  he  lay  with  mouth  open,  snoring  and 
deep  in  slumber,  presented  an  irresistible  mark  for  the 
heavy  gun- butt,  and  all  would  have  been  over  with  that 
sleeper  in  this  world,  had  not  the  attention  of  the  savage 
been  drawn  to  an  object  that  suddenly  appeared  from 
beneath  the  folds  of  the  improvised  tent. 

It  was  the  hand  of  Berselius. 

Berselius,  moving  uneasily  in  his  sleep,  had  flung  out 
his  arm;  the  clenched  fist,  like  the  emblem  of  power, 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  175 

struck  the  eye  of  the  Zappo  Zap,  and  quelled  him  as  the 
sight  of  the  whip  quells  a  dog. 

B'selius  was  alive  and  able  to  clench  his  fist.  That  fact 
was  enough  for  Felix,  and  next  moment  he  was  gone, 
and  the  moonlight  cast  his  black  shadow  as  he  ran,  making 
northeast,  a  darkness  let  loose  on  life  and  on  the  land. 

Adams  awoke  at  sun-up  to  find  the  gun  and  the  cart- 
ridge bag  gone.  The  porters  knew  nothing.  He  had 
picked  up  enough  of  their  language  to  interrogate  them, 
but  they  could  only  shake  their  heads,  and  he  was  debat- 
ing in  his  own  mind  whether  he  ought  to  kick  them  on 
principle,  when  Berselius  made  his  appearance  from  the 
tent. 

His  strength  had  come  back  to  him.  The  dazed  look 
of  the  day  before  had  left  his  face,  but  the  expression 
of  the  face  was  altered.  The  half  smile  which  had  been 
such  a  peculiar  feature  of  his  countenance  was  no  longer 
there.  The  level  eye  that  raised  to  no  man  and  lowered 
before  no  man,  the  aspect  of  command  and  the  ease  of 
perfect  control  and  power  —  where  were  they  ? 

Adams,  as  he  looked  at  his  companion,  felt  a  pang  such 
as  we  feel  when  we  see  a  human  being  suddenly  and 
terribly  mutilated. 

Who  has  not  known  a  friend  who,  from  an  accident 
in  the  hunting  field,  the  shock  of  a  railway  collision,  or 
some  great  grief,  has  suddenly  changed;  of  whom  people 
say,  "Ah,  yes,  since  the  accident  he  has  never  been  the 
same  man"  ? 

A  friend  who  yesterday  was  hale  and  hearty,  full  of 
will  power  and  brain,  and  who  to-day  is  a  different  person 


176  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

with  drooping  under-lip,  lack-lustre  eye,  and  bearing 
in  every  movement  the  indecision  which  marks  the 
inferior  mind. 

Berselius's  under-lip  did  not  droop,  nor  did  his  manner 
lack  the  ordinary  decision  of  a  healthy  man;  the  change 
in  him  was  slight,  but  it  was  sta,rtlingly  evident.  So 
high  had  Nature  placed  him  above  other  men,  that  a 
crack  in  the  pedestal  was  noticeable;  as  to  the  injury 
to  the  statue  itself,  the  ladder  of  time  would  be  required 
before  that  could  be  fully  discovered. 

So  far  from  being  downcast  this  morning,  Berselius 
was  mildly  cheerful.  He  washed  and  had  his  wound 
dressed,  and  then  sat  down  to  a  miserable  breakfast  of 
cold  tinned  meat  and  cassava. cakes,  with  water  fetched 
from  the  pool  in  a  cracked  calabash. 

He  said  nothing  about  the  mist  in  his  head,  and  Adams 
carefully  avoided  touching  on  the  question. 

"Sleep  has  put  him  all  right,"  said  Adams  to  himself. 
"All  the  same,  he  's  not  the  man  he  was.  He  's  a  dozen 
times  more  human  and  like  other  men.  Wonder  how 
long  it  will  last.  Just  as  long  as  he  's  feeling  sick,  I 
expect." 

He  rose  to  fetch  his  pipe  when  Berselius,  who  had 
finished  eating  and  had  also  risen  to  his  feet,  beckoned 
him  to  come  close. 

"That  is  the  road  we  came  by?"  said  Berselius,  point- 
ing over  the  country  toward  the  west. 

"Yes,"  said  Adams,  "that  is  the  road." 

"Do  you  see  the  skyline  ?"  said  Berselius. 

"Yes,  I  see  the  skyline." 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  177 

"Well,  my  memory  carries  me  to  the  skyline,  but  not 
beyond." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  said  Adams  to  himself,  "here  he  is  begin- 
ning it  all  over  again!  " 

"I  can  remember,"  said  Berselius,  "everything  that 
happened  as  far  as  my  eye  carries  me.  For  instance, 
by  that  tree  a  mile  away  a  porter  fell  down.  He  was 
very  exhausted.  And  when  we  had  passed  that  ridge 
near  the  skyline  we  saw  two  birds  fighting;  two  bald- 
headed  vultures " 

"That  is  so,"  said  Adams. 

"But  beyond  the  skyline,"  said  Berselius,  suddenly 
becoming  excited  and  clutching  his  companion's  arm, 
"I  see  nothing.  I  know  nothing.  All  is  mist  —  all 
is  mist." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  surgeon.  "It 's  only  memory 
blindness.  It  will  come  back." 

"Ah,  but  will  it?  If  I  can  get  to  the  skyline  and  see 
the  country  beyond,  and  if  I  remember  that,  and  if  I  go 
on  and  on,  the  way  we  came,  and  if  I  remember  as  I  go, 
then,  then,  I  will  be  saved.  But  if  I  get  to  that  skyline 
and  if  I  find  that  the  mist  stops  me  from  seeing  beyond, 
then  I  pray  you  kill  me,  for  the  agony  of  this  thing  is  not 
to  be  borne."  Suddenly  he  ceased,  and  then,  as  if  to  some 
unseen  person,  he  cried  out  — 

"I  have  left  my  memory  on  that  road." 

Adams,  frightened  at  the  man's  agitation,  tried  to 
soothe  him,  but  Berselius,  in  the  grip  of  this  awful  desire 
to  pierce  back  beyond  that  mist  and  find  himself,  would 
not  be  soothed.  Nothing  would  satisfy  him  but  to  strike 


178  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 


camp  and  return  along  the  road  they  had  come  by.  Some 
instinct  told  him  that  the  sight  of  the  things  he  had  seen 
would  wake  up  memory,  and  that  bit  by  bit,  as  he  went, 
the  mist  would  retreat  before  him,  and  perhaps  vanish 
at  last.  Some  instinct  told  him  this,  but  reason,  who  is 
ever  a  doubter,  tortured  him  with  doubts. 

The  only  course  was*  to  go  back  and  see.  Adams, 
who  doubted  if  his  patient  was  physically  fit  for  a  march, 
at  last  gave  in;  the  man's  agony  of  mind  was  more  dan- 
gerous to  him  than  the  exhaustion  of  physical  exercise 
could  prove.  He  gave  orders  to  the  porters  to  strike  camp, 
and  then  turned  to  himself,  and  helped  them.  They 
only  carried  what  was  barely  needful,  and  was  even  less 
than  needful,  to  take  them  to  Fort  M'Bassa,  ten  days, 
journey  in  Berselius's  condition.  Four  water  bottles 
that  had  been  left  intact  they  filled  with  water;  they  took 
the  tent,  and  the  pole  that  Felix  had  spliced.  Cassava 
cakes  and  tinned  meat  and  a  few  pounds  of  chocolate 
made  up  the  provisions.  There  were  no  guns  to  carry, 
no  trophies  of  the  chase.  Of  all  the  army  of  porters  only 
two  were  left.  Berselius  was  broken  down,  Felix  had 
fled,  they  had  no  guide,  and  the  crowning  horror  of  the 
tiling  was  that  they  had  struck  off  in  pursuit  of  the  herd 
at  right  angles  to  the  straight  path  they  had  taken  from 
the  forest,  and  Adams  did  not  know  in  the  least  the  point 
where  they  had  struck  off.  The  porters  were  absolutely 
no  use  as  guides,  and  unless  God  sent  a  guide  from 
heaven  or  chance  interposed  to  lead  them  in  the  right 
way,  they  were  lost;  for  they  had  no  guns  or  ammuni- 
tion with  which  to  get  food. 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  179 

Truly  the  oinen  of  the  elephant  lying  down  had  not 
spoken  in  vain. 

When  all  was  loaded  up,  and  Adams  was  loaded  even 
like  the  porters,  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  tree 
and  the  pools,  and  leaving  them  there  to  burn  in  the 
sun  forever  struck  straight  west  in  the  direction  from 
which  they  had  come. 

Berselius  had  come  in  pursuit  of  a  terrible  thing  and 
a  merciless  thing;  he  was  returning  in  search  of  a  more 
terrible  and  a  more  merciless  thing  —  Memory. 

It  was  four  hours  after  sun-up  when  they  left  the  camp; 
and  two  hours'  march  brought  them  to  that  ridge  which 
Berselius  had  indicated  from  the  camp  as  being  near  the 
skyline. 

When  they  reached  the  ridge,  and  not  before,  Ber- 
selius halted  and  stared  over  the  country  in  front  of  him, 
his  face  filled  with  triumph  and  hope. 

He  seized  Adams's  hand  and  pointed  away  to  the  west. 
The  ridge  gave  a  big  view  of  the  country. 

"I  can  remember  all  that,"  said  he,  "keenly,  right 
up  to  the  skyline." 

"And  at  the  skyline?" 

"Stands  the  mist,"  replied  Berselius.  "But  it  will 
lift  before  me  as  I  go  on.  Now  I  know  it  is  only  the 
sight  of  the  things  I  have  seen  that  is  needful  to  recall  the 
memory  of  them  and  of  myself  in  connection  with  them." 

Adams  said  nothing.  It  struck  him  with  an  eerie 
feeling  that  this  man  beside  him  was  actually  walking 
back  into  his  past.  As  veil  after  veil  of  distance  was 
raised,  so  would  the  past  come  back,  bit  by  bit. 


180  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

But  he  was  yet  to  learn  what  a  terrible  journey  that 
would  be. 

One  thing  struck  him  as  strange.  Berselius  had 
never  tried  to  pierce  the  mist  by  questions.  The  man 
seemed  entirely  obsessed  by  the  curtain  of  mist,  and 
by  the  necessity  of  piercing  it  by  physical  movement, 
of  putting  tree  to  tree  and  mile  to  mile. 

Berselius  had  not  asked  questions  because,  no  doubt, 
he  was  under  the  dominion  of  a  profound  instinct,  tell- 
ing him  that  the  past  he  had  lost  could  only  be  recalled 
by  the  actual  picture  of  the  things  he  had  seen. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  SENTENCE  OF  THE  DESERT 

BERSELIUS  had  not  asked  a  single  question  as 
to  the  catastrophe.  His  own  misfortune  had 
banished  for  him,  doubtless,  all  interest  in  every- 
thing else. 

Adams  had  said  to  him  nothing  of  Felix,  his  horrible 
deeds  or  his  theft  of  the  rifle.  Felix,  though  he  had 
vanished  from  Adams's  life  completely  and  forever,  had 
not  vanished  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  was  very 
much  alive  and  doing,  and  his  deeds  and  his  fate  are  worth 
a  word,  for  they  formed  a  tragedy  well  fitting  the  stage 
of  this  merciless  land. 

The  Zappo  Zap,  having  secured  the  gun  and  its  ammu- 
nition, revelling  in  the  joy  of  possession  and  power, 
went  skipping  on  his  road,  which  lay  to  the  northeast. 
Six  miles  from  the  camp  he  flung  himself  down  by  a 
bush,  and,  with  the  gun  covered  by  his  arm,  slept,  and 
hunted  in  his  sleep,  like  a  hound,  till  dawn. 

Then  he  rose  and  pursued  his  way,  still  travelling 
northeast,  his  bird-like  eyes  skimming  the  land  and 
horizon.  He  sang  as  he  pursued  his  way,  and  his  song 
fitted  his  filed  teeth  to  a  charm.  If  a  poisoned  arrow 
could  sing  or  a  stabbing  spear,  it  would  sing  what  Felix 

181 


182  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

sang  as  he  went,  his  long  morning  shadow  stalking 
behind  him;  he  as  soulless  and  as  heartless  as  it. 

What  motive  of  attachment  had  driven  him  to  follow 
Verhaeren  to  Yandjali  from  the  Bena  Pianga  country 
heaven  knows,  for  the  man  was  quite  beyond  the  human 
pale.  The  elephants  were  far,  far  above  him  in  power 
of  love  and  kindness;  one  had  to  descend  straight  to  the 
alligators  to  match  him,  and  even  then  one  found  one- 
self at  fault. 

He  was  not.  Those  three  words  alone  describe  this 
figure  of  india-rubber  that  could  still  walk  and  talk  and 
live  and  lust,  and  to  whom  slaying  and  torture  were 
amongst  the  aesthetics  of  life. 

An  hour  before  noon,  beyond  and  above  a  clump  of 
trees,  he  sighted  a  moving  object.  It  was  the  head  of 
a  giraffe. 

It  was  the  very  same  bull  giraffe  that  had  fled  with 
the  elephant  herd  and  then  wheeled  away  south  from  it. 
It  was  wandering  devious  now,  feeding  by  itself,  and  the 
instant  Felix  saw  the  tell-tale  head,  he  dropped  flat  to  the 
ground  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  The  giraffe  had  not  seen 
him,  for  the  head,  having  vanished  for  a  moment, 
reappeared;  it  was  feeding,  plucking  down  small  branches 
of  leaves,  and  Felix,  lying  on  his  side,  opened  the  breech 
of  the  rifle,  drew  the  empty  cartridge  case,  inserted  a 
cartridge  in  each  barrel,  and  closed  the  breech.  Now, 
unknown  to  Adams,  when  he  had  fired  the  gun  the  day 
before,  there  was  a  plug  of  clay  in  the  left-hand  barrel 
about  two  inches  from  the  muzzle;  just  an  inconsiderable 
wad  of  clay  about  as  thick  as  a  gun  wad;  the  elephant 


THE  SENTENCE  OF  THE  DESERT       183 

folk  had  done  this  when  they  had  mishandled  the  gun, 
and,  though  the  thing  could  have  been  removed  with  a 
twig,  Puck  himself  could  not  have  conceived  a  more 
mischievous  obstruction.  He  certainly  never  would 
have  conceived  so  devilish  a  one. 

Adams  had,  fortunately  for  himself,  fired  the  right- 
hand  barrel;  the  concussion  had  not  broken  up  the  plug, 
for  it  was  still  moist,  being  clay  from  the  trodden-up  edge 
of  the  pool.  It  was  moist  still,  for  the  night  dew  had 
found  it. 

The  Zappo  Zap  knew  nothing  of  the  plug.  He  knew 
nothing,  either,  of  the  tricks  of  these  big,  old-fashioned 
elephant  guns,  for  he  kept  both  barrels  full  cock,  and  it  is 
almost  three  to  two  that  if  you  fire  one  of  these  rifles 
with  both  barrels  full  cock,  both  barrels  will  go  off 
simultaneously,  or  nearly  so,  from  the  concussion. 

With  the  gun  trailing  after  him  —  another  foolish 
trick  —  the  savage  crawled  on  his  belly  through  the  long 
grass  to  within  firing  distance  of  the  tree  clump. 

Then  he  lay  and  waited. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait. 

The  giraffe,  hungry  and  feeding,  was  straying  along 
the  edge  of  the  clump  of  trees,  picking  down  the  youngest 
and  freshest  leaves,  just  as  a  gourmet  picks  the  best  bits 
out  of  a  salad. 

In  a  few  minutes  his  body  was  in  view,  the  endless 
neck  flung  up,  the  absurd  head  and  little,  stumpy,  use- 
less horns  prying  amidst  the  leaves,  and  every  now  and 
then  slewing  round  and  sweeping  the  country  in  search 
of  danger, 


184  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Felix  lay  motionless  as  a  log;  then,  during  a  moment 
when  the  giraffe's  head  was  hidden  in  the  leaves,  he 
flung  himself  into  position  and  took  aim. 

A  tremendous  report  rang  out,  the  giraffe  fell,  squeal- 
ing, and  roaring  and  kicking,  and  Felix,  flung  on  his  back, 
lay  stretched  out,  a  cloud  of  gauzy  blue  smoke  in  the  air 
above  him. 

The  breech  of  the  rifle  had  blown  out.  He  had  fired 
the  right-hand  barrel,  but  the  concussion  had  sprung 
the  left-hand  cock  as  well. 

It  seemed  to  the  savage  that  a  great  black  hand  struck 
him  in  the  face  and  flung  him  backward.  He  lay  for 
a  moment,  half-stunned ;  then  he  sat  up,  and,  behold! 
the  sun  had  gone  out  and  he  was  in  perfect  blackness. 

He  was  blind,  for  his  eyes  were  gone,  and  where  his 
nose  had  been  was  now  a  cavity.  He  looked  as  though 
he  had  put  on  a  red  velvet  domino,  and  he  sat  there  in  the 
sun  with  the  last  vestige  of  the  blue  smoke  dissolving 
above  him  in  the  air,  not  knowing  in  the  least  what  had 
happened  to  him. 

He  knew  nothing  of  blindness;  he  knew  little  of  pain. 
An  Englishman  in  his  wounded  state  would  have  been 
screaming  in  agony;  to  Felix  the  pain  was  sharp,  but 
it  was  nothing  to  the  fact  that  the  sun  had  "gone  down." 

He  put  his  hand  to  the  pain  and  felt  his  ruined  face, 
but  that  did  not  tell  him  anything. 

This  sudden  black  dark  was  not  the  darkness  which 
came  from  shutting  one's  eyes;  it  was  something  else, 
and  he  scrambled  on  his  feet  to  find  out. 

He  could  feel  the  darkness  now,  and  he  advanced  a 


THE  SENTENCE  OF  THE  DESERT        185 

few  steps  to  see  if  he  could  walk  through  it;  then  he 
sprang  into  the  air  to  see  if  it  was  lighter  above,  and 
dived  on  his  hands  and  knees  to  see  if  he  could  slip  under 
it,  and  shouted  and  whooped  to  see  if  he  could  drive  it 
away. 

But  it  was  a  great  darkness,  not  to  be  out-jumped, 
jumped  he  as  high  as  the  sun,  or  slipped  under,  were 
he  as  thin  as  a  knife,  or  whooped  away,  though  he 
whooped  to  everlasting. 

He  walked  rapidly,  and  then  he  began  to  run.  He 
ran  rapidly,  and  he  seemed  to  possess  some  instinct  in  his 
feet  which  told  him  of  broken  ground.  The  burst  gun 
lay  where  he  had  left  it  in  the  grass,  and  the  dead  giraffe 
lay  where  it  had  fallen  by  the  trees;  the  wind  blew,  and 
the  grass  waved,  the  sun  spread  his  pyramid  of  light 
from  horizon  to  horizon,  and  in  the  sparkle  above  a  black 
dot  hung  trembling  above  the  stricken  beast  at  the  edge 
of  the  wood. 

The  black  figure  of  the  man  continued  its  headlong 
course.  It  was  running  in  a  circle  of  many  miles,  impelled 
through  the  nothingness  of  night  by  the  dark  soul  rag- 
ing in  it. 

Hours  passed,  and  then  it  fell,  and  lay  face  to  the  sky 
and  arms  outspread.  You  might  have  thought  it  dead. 
But  it  was  a  thing  almost  indestructible.  It  lay  motion- 
less, but  it  was  alive  with  hunger. 

During  all  its  gyrations  it  had  been  followed  and 
watched  closely.  It  had  not  lain  for  a  minute  when  a 
vulture  dropped  like  a  stone  from  the  sky  and  lit  on  it 
with  wings  outspread. 


186  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Next  moment  the  vulture  was  seized,  screeching,  torn 
limb  from  limb,  and  in  the  act  of  being  devoured ! 

But  the  sentence  of  the  desert  on  the  blind  is  death, 
trap  vultures  as  cunningly  as  you  will,  and  devour  them 
as  ferociously.  The  eye  is  everything  in  the  battle  of 
the  strong  against  the  weak.  And  so  it  came  about  that 
two  days  later  a  pair  of  leopards  from  the  woods  to  the 
northeast  fought  with  the  figure,  which  fought  with 
teeth  and  hands  and  feet,  whilst  the  yellow-eyed  kites 
looked  on  at  a  battle  that  would  have  turned  with  horror 
the  heart  of  Flamininus. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

TOWARD   THE   SUNSET 

^¥  T  THEN  Berselius,  standing  on  the  ridge,  had 
^/  ^  looked  long  enough  at  the  country  before 
him,  taking  in  its  every  detail  with  delight, 
they  started  again  on  their  march,  Berselius  leading. 

They  had  no  guide.  The  only  plan  in  Adams's  head 
was  to  march  straight  west  toward  the  sunset  for  a  dis- 
tance roughly  equivalent  to  the  forced  march  they  had 
made  in  pursuit  of  the  herd,  and  then  to  strike  at  right 
angles  due  north  and  try  to  strike  the  wood  isthmus  of 
the  two  great  forests  making  up  the  forest  of  M'Bonga. 

But  the  sunset  is  a  wide  mark  and  only  appears  at 
sunset.  They  had  no  compass;  the  elephant  folk  had 
made  away  with  all  the  instruments  of  the  expedition. 
They  must  inevitably  stray  from  the  true  direction,  strik- 
ing into  that  infernal  circle  which  imprisons  all  things 
blind  and  all  things  compassless.  Even  should  they,  by 
a  miracle,  strike  the  isthmus  of  woods,  the  forest  would 
take  them,  confuse  them,  hand  them  from  tree  to  tree 
and  glade  to  glade,  and  lose  them  at  last  and  for  ever 
in  one  of  the  million  pockets  which  a  forest  holds  open 
for  the  lost. 

The  stout  heart  of  the  big  man  had  not  quailed  before 

187 


188  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

this  prospect.  He  had  a  fighting  chance;  that  was 
enough  for  him.  But  now  at  the  re-start,  as  Berselius 
stepped  forward  and  took  the  lead,  a  hope  sprang  up  in 
his  breast.  A  tremendous  and  joyful  idea  occurred  to 
him.  Was  it  possible  that  Berselius  would  guide  them 
back? 

The  memory  that  the  man  possessed  was  so  keen,  his 
anxiety  to  pierce  the  veil  before  him  was  so  overpowering, 
was  it  possible  that  like  a  hound  hunting  by  sight  instead 
of  smell,  he  would  lead  them  straight? 

Only  by  following  the  exact  track  they  had  come  by, 
could  Berselius  pierce  back  into  that  past  he  craved  to  see. 
Only  by  putting  tree  to  tree  and  ridge  to  ridge,  memory 
to  memory,  could  he  collect  what  he  had  lest. 

Could  he  do  this? 

The  life  of  the  whole  party  depended  upon  the  answer 
to  that  question. 

The  track  they  ought  to  follow  was  the  track  by  which 
the  herd  had  led  them.  Adams  could  not  tell  whether 
they  were  following  that  track  —  even  Felix  could  scarcely 
have  told  —  for  the  dew  and  the  wind  had  made  the  faint 
traces  of  the  elephants  quite  indiscernible  now  to  civilized 
eyes ;  and  Berselius  never  once  looked  at  the  ground  under 
his  feet,  he  was  led  entirely  by  the  configuration  of  the 
land.  That  to  the  eyes  of  Adams  was  hopeless.  For 
the  great  elephant  country  is  all  alike,  and  one  ridge  is 
the  counterpart  of  another  ridge,  and  one  grassy  plain 
of  another  grassy  plain,  and  the  scattered  trees  tell  you 
nothing  when  you  are  lost,  except  that  you  are  lost. 

The  heat  of  the  day  was  now  strong  on  the  land;  the 


TOWARD  THE  SUNSET  189 

porters  sweated  under  their  loads,  and  Adams,  loaded 
like  them,  knew  for  once  in  his  life  what  it  was  to  be  a 
slave  and  a  beast  of  burden. 

Berselius,  who  carried  nothing,  did  not  seem  to  feel 
the  heat;  weak  though  he  must  have  been  from  his  injury 
and  the  blood-letting.  He  marched  on,  ever  on,  apparently 
satisfied  and  well  pleased  as  horizon  lifted,  giving  place 
to  new  horizon,  and  plain  of  waving  grass  succeeded 
ridge  of  broken  ground. 

But  Adams,  as  hour  followed  hour,  felt  the  hope  dying 
out  in  his  breast,  and  the  remorseless  certainty  stole  upon 
him  that  they  were  out  of  their  track.  This  land  seemed 
somehow  different  from  any  he  had  seen  before;  he  could 
have  sworn  that  this  country  around  them  was  not  the 
country  through  which  they  had  pursued  the  herd.  His 
hope  had  been  built  on  a  false  foundation.  How  could  a 
man  whose  memory  was  almost  entirely  obscured 
lead  them  right?  This  was  not  the  case  of  the  blind 
leading  the  blind,  but  the  case  of  the  blind  leading  men 
with  sight. 

Berselius  was  deceiving  himself.  Hope  was  leading 
him,  not  memory. 

And  still  Berselius  led  on,  assured  and  triumphant, 
calling  out,  "See!  do  you  remember  that  tree?  We 
passed  it  at  just  this  distance  when  we  were  coming." 
Or,  now,  "Look  at  that  patch  of  blue  grass.  We  halted 
for  a  minute  here." 

Adams,  after  a  while,  made  no  reply.  The  assurance 
and  delight  of  Berselius  as  these  fancied  memories  came 
to  him  shocked  the  heart.  There  was  a  horrible  and 


190  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

sardonic  humour  in  the  whole  business,  a  bathos  that 
insulted  the  soul. 

The  dead  leading  the  living,  the  blind  leading  the 
man  with  sight,  lunacy  leading  sanity  to  death. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  follow.  As 
well  take  Berselius's  road  as  any  other.  Sunset  would 
tell  them  whether  they  were  facing  the  sunset;  but  he 
wished  that  Berselius  would  cease. 

The  situation  was  bad  enough  to  bear  without  those 
triumphant  calls. 

It  was  past  noon  now;  the  light  wind  that  had  been 
blowing  in  their  faces  had  died  away;  there  was  the  faint- 
est stirring  of  the  air,  and  on  this,  suddenly,  to  Adams's 
nostrils  came  stealing  a  smell  of  corruption,  such  as  he 
had  never  experienced  before. 

It  grew  stronger  as  they  went. 

There  was  a  slight  rise  in  the  ground  before  them  just 
here,  and  as  they  took  it  the  stench  became  almost  insup- 
portable, and  Adams  was  turning  aside  to  spit  when  a  cry 
from  Berselius,  who  was  a  few  yards  in  advance,  brought 
him  forward  to  his  side. 

The  rise  in  the  ground  had  hidden  from  them  a  dried-up 
river-bed,  and  there  before  them  in  the  sandy  trough,  huge 
amidst  the  boulders,  lay  the  body  of  an  elephant. 

A  crowd  of  birds  busy  about  the  carcass  rose  clamour- 
ing in  the  air  and  flew  away. 

"Do  you   remember?"   cried   Berselius. 

"Good  God!"  said  Adams.     "Do  I  remember!" 

It  was  the  body  of  the  great  beast  they  had  passed  when 
in  pursuit  of  the  herd. 


TOWARD  THE  SUNSET  191 

Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  now  that  Berselius  was  guid- 
ing them  aright.  He  had  followed  the  track  they  had 
come  by  without  deviating  a  hundred  yards. 

The  great  animal  was  lying  just  as  they  had  left  it,  but 
the  work  of  the  birds  was  evident;  horribly  so,  and  it 
was  not  a  sight  to  linger  over. 

They  descended  into  the  river  bed,  passed  up  the  other 
bank,  and  went  on,  Berselius  leading  and  Adams  walking 
by  his  side. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Adams,  "I  was  beginning  to 
think  you  were  out  of  the  track." 

Berselius  smiled. 

Adams,  who  was  glancing  at  his  face,  thought  that  he 
had  never  seen  an  expression  like  that  on  the  man's  face 
before.  The  smile  of  the  lips  that  had  marked  and 
marred  his  countenance  through  life,  the  smile  that  was 
half  a  sneer,  was  not  there;  this  came  about  the  eyes. 

"He  was  in  exactly  the  same  position,  too,"  said  Adams. 
"But  the  birds  will  have  him  down  before  long.  Well, 
he  has  served  one  purpose  in  his  life;  he  has  shown  us 
we  are  on  the  right  road,  and  he  has  given  you  back 
another  bit  of  memory." 

"Poor  brute,"  said  Berselius. 

These  words,  coming  from  the  once  iron-hearted 
Berselius,  struck  Adams  strangely;  there  was  a  trace  of 
pity  in  their  tone. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   FADING    MIST 


fnP^HEY  camped  two  hours  before  sundown.  One  of 
the  few  mercies  of  this  country  is  the  number  of 
dead  trees  and  the  bushes  from  which  one  can 
always  scrape  the  materials  for  a  fire. 

Adams,  with  his  hunting  knife  and  a  small  hatchet 
which  was  all  steel  and  so  had  been  uninjured  in  the 
catastrophe,  cut  wood  enough  for  the  fire.  They  had 
nothing  to  cook  with,  but  fortunately  the  food  they  had 
with  them  did  not  require  cooking. 

The  tent  was  practicable,  for  the  pole,  so  well  had 
it  been  spliced,  was  as  good  as  new.  They  set  it  up, 
and  having  eaten  their  supper,  crept  under  it,  leaving  the 
porters  to  keep  watch  or  not  as  they  chose. 

Berselras,  who  had  marched  so  well  all  day,  had  broken 
down  at  the  finish.  He  seemed  half  dead  with  weariness, 
and  scarcely  spoke  a  word,  eating  mechanically  and 
falling  to  sleep  immediately  on  lying  down. 

But  he  was  happy.  Happy  as  the  man  who  suddenly 
finds  that  he  can  outwalk  the  paralysis  threatening  him, 
or  the  man  who  finds  the  fog  of  blindness  lifting  before 
him,  showing  him  again  bit  by  bit  the  world  he  had 
deemed  forever  lost.  Whilst  this  man  sleeps  in  the  tent 

192 


THE  FADING  MIST  193 

beside  his  companion  and  the  waning  moon  breaks  up 
over  the  horizon  and  mixes  her  light  with  the  red  flicker 
of  the  fire,  a  word  about  that  past  of  which  he  was  in 
search  may  not  be  out  of  place. 

Berselius  was  of  mixed  nationality.  His  father  of 
Swedish  descent,  his  mother  of  French. 

Armand  Berselius  the  elder  was  what  is  termed  a  lucky 
man.  In  other  words,  he  had  that  keenness  of  intellect 
which  enables  the  possessor  to  seize  opportunities  and  to 
foresee  events. 

This  art  of  looking  into  the  future  is  the  key  to  Aladdin's 
Palace  and  to  the  Temple  of  Power.  To  know  what  will 
appreciate  in  value  and  what  will  depreciate,  that  is  the 
art  of  success  in  life,  and  that  was  the  art  which  made 
Armand  Berselius  a  millionaire. 

Berselius  the  younger  grew  up  in  an  atmosphere  of 
money.  His  mother  died  when  he  was  quite  young.  He 
had  neither  brothers  nor  sisters;  his  father,  a  chilly-hearted 
sensualist,  had  a  dislike  to  the  boy;  for  some  obscure 
reason,  without  any  foundation  in  fact,  he  fancied  that  he 
was  some  other  man's  son. 

The  basis  of  an  evil  mind  is  distrust.  Beware  of 
the  man  who  is  always  fearful  of  being  swindled.  Who 
cannot  trust,  cannot  be  trusted. 

Berselius  treated  his  son  like  a  brute,  and  the  boy, 
with  great  power  for  love  in  his  heart,  conceived  a  hatred 
for  the  man  who  misused  him  that  was  hellish  in  intensity. 

But  not  a  sign  of  it  did  he  show.  That  power  of  will 
and  restraint  so  remarkable  in  the  grown-up  man  was 
not  less  remarkable  in  the  boy.  He  bound  his  hate  with 


194  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

iron  bands  and  prisoned  it,  and  he  did  this  from  pride. 
When  his  father  thrashed  him  for  the  slightest  offence,  he 
showed  not  a  sign  of  pain  or  passion;  when  the  old  man 
committed  that  last  outrage  one  can  commit  against  the 
mind  of  a  child,  and  sneered  at  him  before  grown-up 
people,  young  Berselius  neither  flushed  nor  moved  an  eye- 
lid. He  handed  the  insult  to  the  beast  feeding  at  his 
heart,  and  it  devoured  it  and  grew. 

The  spring  was  poisoned  at  its  source. 

That  education  of  the  heart  which  only  love  can  give 
was  utterly  cut  off  from  the  boy  and  supplanted  by  the 
education  of  hate. 

And  the  mind  tainted  thus  from  the  beginning  was  an 
extraordinary  mind,  a  spacious  intellect,  great  for  evil 
or  great  for  good,  never  little,  and  fed  by  an  unfailing 
flood  of  energy. 

The  elder  Berselius,  as  if  bent  on  the  utter  damnation 
of  his  son,  kept  him  well  supplied  with  money.  He  did 
this  from  pride. 

The  young  man  took  his  graduate  degree  in  vice,  with 
higher  marks  from  the  devil  than  any  other  young  man 
of  his  time.  He  passed  through  the  college  of  St.  Cyr 
and  into  the  cavalry,  leaving  it  at  the  death  of  his  father 
and  when  he  had  obtained  his  captaincy. 

He  now  found  himself  free,  without  a  profession  and 
with  forty  million  francs  to  squander,  or  save,  or  do  what 
he  liked  with. 

He  at  once  took  his  place  as  a  man  of  affairs  with  one 
hand  in  politics  and  the  other  in  finance.  There  are  a 
dozen  men  like  Berselius  on  the  Continent  of  Europe. 


THE  FADING  MIST  195 

Politicians  and  financiers  under  the  guise  of  Boulevardiers. 
Men  of  leisure  apparently,  but,  in  reality,  men  of  intellect, 
who  work  their  political  and  financial  works  quite  unob- 
trusively and  yet  have  a  considerable  hand  in  the  making 
of  events. 

Berselius  was  one  of  these,  varying  the  monotony  of 
social  life  with  periodic  returns  to  the  wilderness. 

With  the  foundation  of  the  Congo  State  by  King 
Leopold,  Berselius  saw  huge  chances  of  profit.  He 
knew  the  country,  for  he  had  hunted  there.  He  knew 
the  ivory,  the  copal,  and  the  palm  oil  resources  of  the 
place,  and  in  the  rubber  vines  he  guessed  an  untapped 
source  of  boundless  wealth.  He  saw  the  great  difficulty 
in  the  way  of  making  this  territory  a  paying  concern ;  that 
is  to  say,  he  saw  the  labour  question.  Europeans  would 
not  do  the  work;  the  blacks  would  not,  unless  paid,  and 
even  then  inefficiently. 

To  keep  up  a  large  force  of  European  police  to  make 
the  blacks  work  on  European  terms,  was  out  of  the 
question.  The  expense  would  run  away  with  half  the 
profits;  the  troops  would  die,  and,  worst  of  all,  other 
nations  would  say,  "What  are  you  doing  with  that  huge 
army  of  men?"  The  word  "slavery"  had  to  be 
eliminated  from  the  proceedings,  else  the  conscience  of 
Europe  would  be  touched.  He  foresaw  this,  and  he  was 
lost  in  admiration  at  the  native  police  idea.  The  stroke 
of  genius  that  collected  all  the  Felixes  of  the  Congo  basin 
into  an  army  of  darkness,  and  collected  all  the  weak  and 
defenceless  into  a  herd  of  slaves,  was  a  stroke  after  his 
own  heart. 


196  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Of  the  greatest  murder  syndicate  the  world  has  ever 
seen,  Berselius  became  a  member.  He  was  not  invited 
to  the  bloody  banquet — he  invited  himself. 

He  had  struck  the  Congo  in  a  hunting  expedition; 
he  had  seen  and  observed;  later  on,  during  a  second 
expedition,  he  had  seen  the  germination  of  Leopold's  idea. 
He  dropped  his  gun  and  came  back  to  Europe. 

He  was  quite  big  enough  to  have  smashed  the  whole 
infernal  machinery  then  and  there.  America  had  not 
yet,  hoodwinked,  signed  the  licence  to  kill,  which  she 
handed  to  Leopold  on  the  22d  of  April,  1884.  Ger- 
many had  not  been  roped  in.  England  and  France  were 
still  aloof,  and  Berselius,  arriving  at  the  psychological 
moment,  did  not  mince  matters. 

The  result  was  two  million  pounds  to  his  credit  during 
the  next  ten  years. 

So  much  for  Berselius  and  his  past. 

An  hour  after  dawn  next  day  they  started.  The 
morning  was  windless,  warm,  and  silent,  and  the  sun 
shining  broad  on  the  land  cast  their  shadows  before 
them  as  they  went,  the  porters  with  their  loads  piled 
on  their  heads,  Adams  carrying  the  tent-pole  and  tent, 
Berselius  leading. 

He  had  recovered  from  his  weakness  of  the  night  before. 
He  had  almost  recovered  his  strength,  and  he  felt  that 
newness  of  being  which  the  convalescent  feels  —  that 
feeling  of  new  birth  into  the  old  world  which  pays  one, 
almost,  for  the  pains  of  the  past  sickness. 

Never  since  his  boyhood  had  Berselius  felt  that  keen 
pleasure  in  the  sun  and  the  blue  sky  and  the  grass  under 


THE  FADING  MIST  197 

his  feet;  but  it  called  up  no  memories  of  boyhood,  for  the 
mist  was  still  there,  hiding  boyhood  and  manhood  and 
everything  up  to  the  skyline. 

But  the  mist  did  not  frighten  him  now.  He  had 
found  a  means  of  dispelling  it;  the  photographic  plates 
were  all  there  unbroken,  waiting  only  to  be  collected  and 
put  together,  and  he  felt  instinctively  that  after  a  time, 
when  he  had  collected  a  certain  number,  the  brain  would 
gain  strength,  and  all  at  once  the  mist  would  vanish  for 
ever,  and  he  would  be  himself  again. 

Three  hours  after  the  start  they  passed  a  broken- 
down  tree. 

Adams  recognized  it  at  once  as  the  tree  they  had  passed 
on  the  hunt,  shortly  after  turning  from  their  path  to  follow 
the  herd  of  elephants. 

Berselius  was  still  leading  them  straight,  and  soon 
they  would  come  to  the  crucial  point  --  the  spot 
where  they  had  turned  at  right  angles  to  follow  the 
elephants. 

Would  Berselius  remember  and  turn,  or  would  he 
get  confused  and  go  on  in  a  straight  line  ? 

The  question  was  answered  in  another  twenty  minutes 
by  Berselius  himself. 

He  stopped  dead  and  waved  his  arm  with  a  sweeping 
motion  to  include  all  the  country  to  the  north. 

"We  came  from  there,"  he  said,  indicating  the  north. 
"  We  struck  the  elephant  spoor  just  here,  and  turned  due 
west." 

"How  on  earth  do  you  know?"  asked  Adams.  "I 
can't  see  any  indication,  and  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  n't 


198  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

tell  where  we  turned  or  whether  we  came  from  there," 
indicating  the  north,  "or  there,"  pointing  to  the  south. 
"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"How  do  I  know?"  replied  Berselius.  "Why,  this 
place  and  everything  we  reach  and  pass  is  as  vivid  to 
me  as  if  I  had  passed  it  only  two  minutes  ago.  It  hits 
me  with  such  vividness  that  it  blinds  me.  It  is  that  which 
I  believe  makes  the  mist.  The  things  I  can  see  are  so 
extraordinarily  vivid  that  they  hide  everything  else.  My 
brain  seems  new  born  —  every  memory  that  comes  back 
to  it  comes  back  glorious  in  strength.  If  there  were  gods, 
they  would  see  as  I  see." 

A  wind  had  arisen  and  it  blew  from  the  northwest. 
Berselius  inhaled  it  triumphantly. 

Adams  stood  watching  him.  This  piece-by-piece 
return  of  memory,  this  rebuilding  of  the  past  foot  by  foot, 
mile  by  mile,  and  horizon  by  horizon,  was  certainly  the 
strangest  phenomenon  of  the  brain  that  he  had  ever 
come  across. 

This  thing  occurs  in  civilized  life,  but  then  it  is  far 
less  striking,  for  the  past  comes  to  a  man  from  a  hundred 
close  points  —  a  thousand  familiar  things  in  his  house  or 
surroundings  call  to  him  when  he  is  brought  back  to  them; 
but  here  in  the  great,  lone  elephant  land,  the  only  familiar 
thing  was  the  track  they  had  followed  and  the  country 
around  it.  If  Berselius  had  been  taken  off  that  track  and 
placed  a  few  miles  away,  he  would  have  been  as  lost  as 
Adams. 

They  wheeled  to  the  north,  following  in  their  leader's 
footsteps. 


THE  FADING  MIST  199 

That  afternoon,  late,  they  camped  by  the  same  pool 
near  which  Berselius  had  shot  the  rhinos. 

Adams,  to  make  sure,  walked  away  to  where  the  great 
bull  had  fought  the  cow  before  being  laid  low  by  the  rifle 
of  the  hunter. 

The  bones  were  there,  picked  clean  and  bleached, 
exemplifying  the  eternal  hunger  of  the  desert,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  horrible  facts  in  life.  These  two  great 
brutes  had  been  left  nearly  whole  a  few  days  ago;  tons 
of  flesh  had  vanished  like  snow  in  sunshine,  mist  in 
morning. 

But  Adams,  as  he  gazed  at  the  colossal  bones,  was 
not  thinking  of  that;  the  marvel  of  their  return  filled  his 
mind  as  he  looked  from  the  skeletons  to  where,  against 
the  evening  blue,  a  thin  wreath  of  smoke  rose  up  from 
the  camp  fire  which  the  porters  had  lighted. 

Far  away  south,  so  far  away  as  to  be  scarcely  discernible, 
a  bird  was  sailing  along,  sliding  on  the  wind  without  a 
motion  of  the  wings.  It  passed  from  sight  and  left  the 
sky  stainless,  and  the  land  lay  around  silent  with  the  tre- 
mendous silence  of  evening,  and  lifeless  as  the  bones 
bleaching  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

I   AM   THE    FOREST 

THE  day  after  the  next,  two  hours  before  noon, 
they  passed  an  object  which  Adams  remembered 
well. 

It  was  the  big  tree  which  Berselius  had  pointed  out 
to  him  as  having  been  tusked  by  an  elephant;  and  an 
hour  after  they  had  started  from  the  mid-day  rest,  the 
horizon  to  the  north  changed  and  grew  dark. 

It  was  the  forest. 

The  sky  immediately  above  the  dark  line,  from  con- 
trast, was  extraordinarily  bright  and  pale,  and,  as  they 
marched,  the  line  lifted  and  the  trees  grew. 

"Look!"  said  Berselius. 

"I  see,"  replied  Adams. 

A  question  was  troubling  his  mind.  Would  Berselius 
be  able  to  guide  them  amidst  the  trees?  Here  in  the 
open  he  had  a  hundred  tiny  indications  on  either  side 
of  him,  but  amidst  the  trees  how  could  he  find  his  way  ? 
Was  it  possible  that  memory  could  lead  him  through  that 
labyrinth  once  it  grew  dense  ? 

It  will  be  remembered  that  it  was  a  two  days'  march 
from  Fort  M'Bassa  through  the  isthmus  of  woods  to 
the  elephant  country.  At  the  edge  of  the  forest  the  trees 

200 


I  AM  THE  FOREST  201 

were  very  thinly  set,  but  for  the  rest,  and  a  day's  inarch 
from  the  fort,  it  was  jungle. 

Would  Berselius  be  able  to  penetrate  that  jungle? 
Time  would  tell.  Berselius  knew  nothing  about  it;  he 
only  knew  what  lay  before  his  sight. 

Toward  evening  the  trees  came  out  to  meet  them, 
baobab  and  monkey-bread,  set  widely  apart;  and  they 
camped  by  a  pool  and  lit  their  fire,  and  slept  as  men  sleep 
in  the  pure  air  of  the  woods  and  the  desert. 

Next  morning  they  pursued  their  journey,  Berselius 
still  confident.  At  noon,  however,  he  began  to  exhibit 
slight  signs  of  agitation  and  anxiety.  The  trees  were 
thickening  around  them;  he  still  knew  the  way,  but  the 
view  before  him  was  getting  shorter  and  shorter  as  the 
trees  thickened ;  that  is  to  say,  the  mist  was  coming  closer 
and  closer.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  dense  jungle  before 
them;  he  only  knew  that  the  clear  road  in  front  of  him 
was  shortening  up  rapidly  and  horribly,  and  that  if  it 
continued  to  do  so  it  would  inevitably  vanish. 

The  joy  that  had  filled  his  heart  became  transformed 
to  the  grief  which  the  man  condemned  to  blindness  feels 
when  he  sees  the  bright  world  fading  from  his  sight, 
slowly  but  surely  as  the  expiring  flame  of  a  lamp. 

He  walked  more  rapidly,  and  the  more  rapidly  he  went 
the  shorter  did  the  road  before  him  grow. 

All  at  once  the  forest  —  which  had  been  playing,  up  to 
this,  with  Berselius  as  a  cat  plays  with,  a  mouse  —  all  at 
once  the  forest,  like  a  great  green  Sphinx,  put  down  its 
great  green  paw  and  spoke  from  its  cavernous  heart  — 

"I  am  the  Forest." 


202  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

They  had  passed  almost  at  a  step  into  the  labyrinths. 
Plantain  leaves  hit  them  insolently  in  the  face,  lianas 
hung  across  their  path  like  green  ropes  placed  to  bar 
them  out,  weeds  tangled  the  foot. 

Berselius,  like  an  animal  that  finds  itself  trapped, 
plunged  madly  forward.  Adams  following  closely  be- 
hind heard  him  catching  back  his  breath  with  a  sob. 
They  plunged  on  for  a  few  yards,  and  then  Berselius 
stood  still. 

The  forest  was  very  silent,  and  seemed  listening.  The 
evening  light  and  the  shade  of  the  leaves  cast  gloom  around 
them.  Adams  could  hear  his  own  heart  thumping  and 
the  breathing  of  the  porters  behind  him  If  Berselius 
had  lost  his  way,  then  they  were  lost  indeed. 

After  a  moment  Berselius  spoke,  as  a  man  speaks  whose 
every  hope  in  life  is  shattered. 

"The  path  is  gone." 

Adams's  only  reply  was  a  deep  intake  of  the  breath. 

"There  is  nothing  before  me.     I  am  lost." 

"Shall  we  try  back?  "said  Adams,  speaking  in  that 
hard  tone  which  comes  when  a  man  is  commanding  his 
voice. 

"Back?  Of  what  use?  I  cannot  go  back;  I  must 
go  forward.  But  here  there  is  nothing." 

The  unhappy  man's  voice  was  terrible  to  hear.  He 
had  marched  so  triumphantly  all  day,  drawing  nearer 
at  each  step  to  himself,  to  that  self  which  memory  had 
hidden  from  him  and  which  memory  was  disclosing  bit 
by  bit.  And  now  the  march  was  interrupted  as  if  by 
a  wall  set  across  his  path. 


I  AM  THE  FOREST  203 

But  Adams  was  of  a  type  of  man  to  whom  despondency 
may  be  known,  but  never  despair. 

They  had  marched  all  day;  they  were  lost,  it  is  true,  but 
they  were  not  far,  now,  from  Fort  M'Bassa.  The  imme- 
diate necessity  was  rest  and  food. 

There  was  a  little  clearing  amidst  the  trees  just  here, 
and  with  his  own  hands  he  raised  the  tent.  They  had  no 
fire,  but  the  moon  when  she  rose,  though  in  her  last  quarter, 
lit  up  the  forest  around  them  with  a  green  glow-worm 
glimmer.  One  could  see  the  lianas  and  the  trees,  the 
broad  leaves  shining  with  dew,  some  bright,  some  sketched 
in  dimly,  and  all  bathed  in  gauze  green  light;  and  they 
could  hear  the  drip  and  patter  of  dew  on  leaf  and  branch. 

This  is  a  mournful  sound  —  the  most  mournful  of  all 
the  sounds  that  fill  the  great  forests  of  the  Congo.  It 
is  so  casual,  so  tearful.  One  might  fancy  it  the  sound 
of  the  forest  weeping  to  itself  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

GOD   SENDS   A   GUIDE 

TO  BE  lost  in  the  desert  or  in  a  land  like  the  elephant 
country  is  bad,  but  to  be  lost  in  the  dense  parts 
of  the  tropical  forest  is  far  worse. 

You  are  in  a  horrible  labyrinth,  a  maze,  not  of  intricate 
paths  but  of  blinding  curtains.  I  am  speaking  now  of  that 
arrogant  jungle,  moist  and  hot,  where  life  is  in  full  ferment, 
and  where  the  rubber  vine  grows  and  thrives;  where  you 
go  knee-deep  in  slush  and  catch  at  a  tree-bole  to  pre- 
vent yourself  going  farther,  cling,  sweating  at  every  pore 
and  shivering  like  a  dog,  feeling  for  firmer  ground  and 
finding  it,  only  to  be  led  on  to  another  quagmire.  The 
bush  pig  avoids  this  place,  the  leopard  shuns  it;  it  is 
bad  in  the  dry  season  when  the  sun  gives  some  light 
by  day,  and  the  moon  a  gauzy  green  glimmer  by  night, 
but  in  the  rains  it  is  terrific.  Night,  then,  is  black  as 
the  inside  of  a  trunk,  and  day  is  so  feeble  that  your  hand, 
held  before  your  face  at  arm's  length,  is  just  a  shadow. 
The  westward  part  of  the  forest  of  M'Bonga  projects  a 
spur  of  the  pestiferous  rubber-bearing  land  into  the 
isthmus  of  healthy  woods.  It  was  just  at  the  tip  of 
this  spur  that  Berselius  and  his  party  were  entangled 
and  lost. 

204 


GOD  SENDS  A  GUIDE  205 

The  two  porters  were  Yandjali  men,  they  knew  noth- 
ing of  these  woods,  and  were  utterly  useless  as  guides; 
they  sat  now  amidst  the  leaves  near  the  tent  eating  their 
food;  dark  shadows  in  the  glow-worm  light,  the  glisten- 
ing black  skin  of  a  knee  or  shoulder  showing  up  touched 
by  the  glimmer  in  which  leaf  and  liana,  tree  trunk  and 
branch,  seemed  like  marine  foliage  bathed  in  the  watery 
light  of  a  sea-cave. 

Adams  had  lit  a  pipe,  and  he  sat  beside  Berselius  at 
the  opening  of  the  tent,  smoking.  The  glare  of  the  match 
had  shown  him  the  face  of  Berselius  for  a  moment. 
Berselius,  since  his  first  outcry  on  finding  the  path  gone, 
had  said  little,  and  there  was  a  patient  and  lost  look  on 
his  face,  sad  but  most  curious  to  see.  Most  curious, 
for  it  said  fully  what  a  hundred  little  things  had  been 
hinting  since  their  start  from  the  scene  of  the  catas- 
trophe —  that  the  old  Berselius  had  vanished  and  a  new 
Berselius  had  taken  his  place.  Adams  had  at  first  put 
down  the  change  in  his  companion  to  weakness,  but  the 
weakness  had  passed,  the  man's  great  vitality  had 
reasserted  itself,  and  the  change  was  still  there. 

This  was  not  the  man  who  had  engaged  him  in  Paris; 
this  person  might  have  been  a  mild  twin-brother  of  the 
redoubtable  Captain  of  the  Avenue  Malakoff,  of  Matadi 
and  Yandjali.  When  memory  came  fully  back,  would  it 
bring  with  it  the  old  Berselius,  or  would  the  new  Berselius, 
mild,  inoffensive,  and  kindly,  suddenly  find  himself 
burdened  with  the  tremendous  past  of  the  man  he  once 
had  been  ? 

Nothing  is  more  true  than  that  the  human  mind  from 


206  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

accident,  from  grief,  or  from  that  mysterious  excite- 
ment, during  which  in  half  an  hour  a  blaspheming 
costermonger  "gets  religion"  and  becomes  a  saint  of 
God  —  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  the  human 
mind  can  like  this,  at  a  flash,  turn  topsy-turvy;  the  good 
coming  to  the  top,  the  bad  going  to  the  bottom.  Mechan- 
ical pressure  on  the  cortex  of  the  brain  can  bring  this 
state  of  things  about,  even  as  it  can  convert  a  saint  of  God 
into  a  devil  incarnate. 

Was  Berselius  under  the  influence  of  forced  amend- 
ment of  this  sort  ? 

Adams  was  not  even  considering  the  matter,  he  was 
lost  in  gloomy  thoughts. 

He  was  smoking  slowly,  holding  his  index  and  middle 
fingers  over  the  pipe-bowl  to  prevent  the  tobacco  burn- 
ing too  quickly,  for  he  had  only  a  couple  of  pipefuls 
left.  He  was  thinking  that  to-morrow  evening  the  pouch 
would  be  empty,  when,  from  somewhere  in  the  forest 
near  by,  there  came  a  sound  which  brought  him  to  his 
feet  and  the  two  porters  up  on  hands  and  knees  like 
listening  dogs. 

It  was  the  sound  of  a  human  voice  raised  in  a  sort 
of  chant,  ghostly  and  mournful  as  the  sound  of  the  fall- 
ing dew.  As  it  came,  rising  and  falling,  monotonous  and 
rhythmical,  the  very  plain  song  of  desolation,  Adams 
felt  his  hair  lift  and  his  flesh  crawl,  till  one  of  the  porters, 
springing  erect  from  his  crouching  position,  sent  his 
voice  through  the  trees  — 

"Ahiahee!" 

The   song   ceased;   and   then,  a  moment  later,  faint 


GOD  SENDS  A  GUIDE  207 

and  wavering,  and  like  the  voice  of  a  sea-gull,  came 
the  reply  - 

"Ahi  aheee!" 

"Man,"  said  the  porter,  turning  white  eyeballs  and 
glinting  teeth  over  his  shoulder  at  Adams. 

He  called  again,  and  again  came  the  reply. 

"Quick,"  said  Adams,  seizing  the  arm  of  Berselius, 
who  had  risen,  "there  's  a  native  here  somewhere  about; 
he  may  guide  us  out  of  this  infernal  place;  follow  me,  and 
for  God's  sake  keep  close." 

Holding  Berselius  by  the  arm,  and  motioning  the 
other  native  to  follow,  he  seized  the  porter  by  the  shoulder 
and  pushed  him  forward.  The  man  knew  what  was 
required  and  obeyed,  advancing,  calling,  and  listening 
by  turns,  till,  at  last,  catching  the  true  direction  of  the 
sound  he  went  rapidly,  Berselius  and  Adams  following 
close  behind.  Sometimes  they  were  half  up  to  the  knees 
in  boggy  patches,  fighting  their  way  through  leaves  that 
struck  them  like  great  wet  hands;  sometimes  the  call  in 
the  distance  seemed  farther  away,  and  they  held  their 
pace,  they  held  their  breath,  they  clung  to  each  other, 
listening,  till,  now,  by  some  trick  of  the  trees,  though 
they  had  not  moved  and  though  there  was  no  wind,  the 
cry  came  nearer. 

"Ahi,  ahee!" 

Then,  at  last,  a  dim  red  glow  shone  through  the  foliage 
before  them  and  bursting  their  way  through  the  leaves 
they  broke  into  an  open  space  where,  alone,  by  a  small 
fire  of  dry  branches  and  brushwood,  sat  a  native,  stark 
naked,  except  for  a  scrap  of  dingy  loincloth,  and  looking 


208  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

like  a  black  gnome,  a  faun  of  this  horrible  place,  and 
the  very  concretion  of  its  desolation  and  death. 

He  was  sitting  when  they  caught  their  first  glimpse 
of  him,  with  his  chin  supported  on  his  hand,  but  the 
instant  he  saw  the  faces  of  the  white  men  he  rose 
as  if  to  escape,  then  the  porter  called  out  some- 
thing that  reassured  him,  and  he  sat  down  again 
and  shivered. 

He  was  one  of  the  rubber  collectors.  He  had  reached 
this  spot  the  day  before,  and  had  built  himself  a  shelter 
of  leaves  and  branches.  He  would  be  here  for  ten  days 
or  a  fortnight,  and  his  food,  chiefly  cassava,  lay  in  a  little 
pile  in  the  shelter,  covered  over  with  leaves, 

The  porter  continued  speaking  to  the  collector,  who, 
now  regaining  the  use  of  his  limbs,  stood  up  before  the 
white  men,  hands  folded  in  front  of  him,  and  his  eyes 
rolling  from  Berselius  to  Adams. 

"M'Bassa,"  said  Adams,  touching  the  porter,  point- 
ing to  the  collector,  and  then  away  into  the  forest  in  the 
direction  he  fancied  Fort  M'Bassa  to  be. 

The  porter  understood.  He  said  a  few  words  to  the 
collector,  who  nodded  his  head  furiously  and  struck 
himself  on  the  breast  with  his  open  hand. 

Then  the  porter  turned  again  to  Adams. 

"M'Bassa,"  said  he,  nodding  his  head,  pointing  to  the 
collector,  and  then  away  into  the  forest. 

That  was  all,  but  it  meant  that  they  were  saved. 

Adams  gave  a  great  whoop  that  echoed  away  through 
the  trees,  startling  bats  and  birds  in  the  branches  and 
losing  itself  without  an  echo  in  the  depths  of  the 


GOD  SENDS  A  GUIDE  209 

gloom.  Then  he  struck  himself  a  blow  on  the  chest 
with  his  fist. 

"My  God! "  said  he,  "the  tent! " 

They  had  only  travelled  an  eighth  of  a  mile  or  so  from 
the  camping  place,  but  they  had  wandered  this  way  and 
that  before  the  porter  had  found  the  true  direction  of  the 
call,  and  the  tent,  provisions,  and  everything  else  were 
lost  as  utterly  and  irrevocably  as  though  they  had  been 
dropped  in  mid-ocean. 

To  step  aside  from  a  thing  —  even  for  a  hundred 
yards  —  in  this  terrible  place  was  to  lose  it;  even  the 
rubber  collectors,  from  whom  the  forest  holds  few 
secrets  have,  in  these  thick  places,  to  blaze  a  trail  by 
breaking  branches,  tying  lianas  and  marking  tree 
trunks. 

"True,"  said  Berselius  in  a  weary  voice,  "we  have 
lost  even  that." 

"No  matter,"  said  Adams,  "we  have  got  a  guide. 
Cheer  up,  this  man  will  take  us  to  Fort  M'Bassa  and 
there  you  will  find  the  road  again." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Berselius,  a  touch  of  hope 
in  his  voice. 

"Sure?  Certain.  You've  forgotten  Fort  M'Bassa. 
Well,  when  you  see  it,  you  will  remember  it,  and  it  will 
lead  you  right  away  home.  Cheer  up,  cheer  up;  we  've 
got  a  fire  and  a  bit  of  shelter  for  you  to  sleep  under,  and 
we  '11  start  bright  and  early  in  the  morning,  and  this 
black  imp  of  Satan  will  lead  you  straight  back  to  your  road 
and  your  memory  —  hey!  Uncle  Joe!  " 

He  patted  the  collector  on  the  naked  shoulder  and 


210  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

a  faint  grin  appeared  on  that  individual's  forlorn  coun- 
tenance; never  had  he  come  across  a  white  man  like  this 
before.  Then,  bustling  about,  Adams  piled  up  the  fire 
with  more  sticks,  got  Berselius  under  the  shelter  of  the 
collector's  wretched  hut,  sat  himself  down  close  to  the  fire, 
produced  his  pipe,  and  proceeded,  in  one  glorious  debauch, 
to  finish  the  last  of  his  tobacco. 

This  rubber  collector,  the  last  and  the  humblest 
creature  on  earth,  had  given  them  fire  and  shelter;  they 
were  also  to  be  beholden  to  him  for  food.  His  wretched 
cassava  cakes  and  his  calabash  of  water  gave  them  their 
breakfast  next  morning,  and  then  they  started,  the  col- 
lector leading,  walking  before  them  through  the  dense 
growth  of  the  trees  as  assuredly  as  a  man  following  a 
well-known  road.  It  was  a  terrible  thing  for  him  to 
leave  his  post,  but  the  white  men  were  from  M'Bassa  and 
wished  to  return  to  M'Bassa,  and  M'Bassa  was  the  head 
centre  of  his  work  and  the  terrible  Mecca  of  his  fears, 
White  men  from  there  and  going  to  there  must  be  obeyed. 

This  was  the  last  phase  of  the  great  hunt.  Berselius 
had  been  slowly  stripped  by  the  wilderness  of  every- 
thing now  but  the  clothes  he  stood  up  in,  his  companion 
and  two  porters.  Guns,  equipment,  tents,  stores,  the 
Zappo  Zap,  and  the  army  of  men  under  that  ferocious 
lieutenant,  had  all  "gone  dam."  He  was  mud  to  the 
knees,  his  clothing  was  torn,  he  was  mud  to  the  elbows 
from  having  tripped  last  night  and  fallen  in  a  quagmire, 
his  face  was  white  and  drawn  and  grimy  as  the  face  of  a 
London  cabrunner,  his  hair  was  grayer  and  dull,  but  his 
eyes  were  bright  and  he  was  happy.  At  M'Bassa  he  would 


GOD  SENDS  A  GUIDE  211 

be  put  upon  the  road  again  —  the  only  road  to  the  thing  he 
craved  for  as  burning  Dives  craved  for  water  —  himself. 

But  it  was  ordained  that  he  should  find  that  ques- 
tionably desirous  person  before  reaching  M'Bassa. 

They  had  been  on  the  march  for  an  hour  when  Adams, 
fussing  like  a  person  who  is  making  his  first  journey  by 
rail,  stopped  the  guide  to  make  sure  he  was  leading  them 
right. 

"M'Bassa?"  said  Adams. 

"M'Bassa,"  replied  the  other,  nodding  his  head. 
Then  with  outspread  hand  he  pointed  before  them  and 
made  a  semicircular  sweep  to  indicate  that  he  was  lead- 
ing them  for  some  reason  by  a  circuitous  route. 

He  was  making,  in  fact,  for  open  ground  that  would 
bring  them  in  the  direction  of  the  fort  by  a  longer  but 
much  easier  road  than  a  direct  line  through  the  jungle. 
He  was  making  also  for  water,  for  his  scant  supply  had 
been  exhausted  by  his  guests,  and  he  knew  the  road  he 
was  taking  would  lead  him  to  broad  pools  of  water. 
Adams  nodded  his  head  to  imply  that  he  understood, 
and  the  man  led  on. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   VISION   OF   THE   POOLS 

SOMEWHERE  about  noon  they  halted  for   a   rest 
and  some  food.     It  was   less    boggy   here,    and 
the  sunlight  showed  stronger  through  the  dense 
roof  of  foliage.     The  cassava  cakes  were  tainted  with 
must,  and  they  had  no  water,  but  the  increasing  light 
made  them  forget  everything  but  the  freedom  that  was 
opening  before  them. 

Adams  pointed  to  the  empty  calabash  which  their 
guide  carried,  and  the  collector  nodded  and  pointed  before 
them,  as  if  to  imply  that  soon  they  would  come  to  water 
and  that  all  would  be  well. 

Now,  as  they  resumed  their  way,  the  trees  altered 
and  drew  farther  apart,  the  ground  was  solid  under 
foot,  and  through  the  foliage  of  the  euphorbia  and 
raphia  palm  came  stray  glimmers  of  sunshine,  bits  of 
blue  sky,  birds,  voices,  and  the  whisper  of  a  breeze. 

"This  is  better,"  said  Berselius. 

Adams  flung  up  his  head  and  expanded  his  nostrils. 

"Better,  my  God!"  said  he;  "this  is  heaven!" 

It  was  heaven,  indeed,  after  that  hell  of  gloom;  that 
bog  roofed  in  with  leaves,  the  very  smell  of  which  clings 
to  one  for  ever  like  the  memory  of  a  fever  dream. 

213 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  POOLS  213 

All  at  once  patches  of  sunlight  appeared  in  front  as 
well  as  above.  They  quickened  their  pace,  the  trees 
drew  apart,  and,  suddenly,  with  theatrical  effect,  a  park- 
like  sward  of  land  lay  before  them  leading  to  a  sheet 
of  blue  water  reflecting  tall  feather-palms  and  waving 
spear-grass,  all  domed  over  with  blue,  and  burning  in 
the  bright,  bright  sunshine. 

"The  Silent  Pools!"  cried  Adams.  "The  very  place 
where  I  saw  the  leopard  chasing  the  antelope!  Great 
Scott!  —  Hi !  hi !  hi !  you  there!  —  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

The  collector  had  raced  down  to  the  water's  edge; 
he  knew  the  dangers  of  the  place,  for  he  divided  the 
grass,  filled  his  calabash  with  water,  and  dashed  back 
before  anything  could  seize  him.  Then,  without  drink- 
ing, he  came  running  with  the  calabash  to  the  white 
men. 

Adams  handed  the  calabash  first  to  his  companion. 

Berselius  drank  and  then  wiped  his  forehead;  he 
seemed  disturbed  in  his  mind  and  had  a  dazed  look. 

He  had  never  come  so  far  along  the  edge  of  the  pools 
as  this,  but  there  was  something  in  the  configuration 
of  the  place  that  stirred  his  sleeping  memory. 

"What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Adams. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Berselius.     "I  have  dreamt 
- 1    have     seen  —  I    remember    something  —  some- 
where - 

Adams  laughed. 

"I  know,"  said  he;  "you  come  along,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  you  will  see  something  that  will  help  your  mem- 
ory. Why,  man,  we  camped  near  here,  you  and  I  and 


214  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Meeus;  when  you  see  the  spot  you  '11  find  yourself  on  your 
road  again.  Come,  let 's  make  a  start." 

The  collector  was  standing  with  the  half-full  calabash 
in  his  hands. 

He  had  not  dared  to  drink.  Adams  nodded  to  him, 
motioning  him  to  do  so,  but  he  handed  it  first  to  the  porter. 
Then,  when  the  porter  had  drunk,  the  collector  finished 
the  remains  of  the  water  and  the  last  few  drops  he  flung 
on  the  ground,  an  offering,  perhaps,  to  some  god  or  devil 
of  his  own.  Then  he  led  on,  skirting  the  water's  edge. 
The  loveliness  of  the  place  had  not  lessened  since  Adams 
had  seen  it  last;  even  the  breeze  that  was  blowing  to-day 
did  not  disturb  the  spirit  of  sweet  and  profound  peace 
which  held  in  a  charm  this  lost  garden  of  the  wilderness; 
the  palms  bent  as  if  in  sleep,  the  water  dimpled  to  the 
breeze  and  seemed  to  smile,  a  flamingo,  with  rose-coloured 
wings,  passed  and  flew  before  them  and  vanished  beyond 
the  rocking  tops  of  the  trees  that  still  sheltered  the  camp- 
ing place  where  once  Berselius  had  raised  his  tent. 

Again,  with  theatrical  effect,  as  the  pools  had  burst 
upon  them  on  leaving  the  forest,  the  camping  place 
unveiled  itself. 

"Now,"  said  Adams  in  triumph,  "do  you  remember 
that?" 

Berselius  did  not  reply.  He  was  walking  along  with 
his  eyes  fixed  straight  before  him.  He  did  not  stop, 
or  hesitate,  or  make  any  exclamation  to  indicate  whether 
he  remembered  or  not. 

"Do  you  remember?"  cried  Adams. 

But  Berselius  did  not  speak.     He  was  making  noises 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  POOLS  215 

as  if  strangling,  and  suddenly  his  hands  flew  up  to  the 
neck  of  his  hunting  shirt,  and  tore  at  it  till  he  tore  it  open. 

"Steady,  man,  steady,"  cried  Adams  catching  the 
other's  arm.  "Hi,  you  '11  be  in  a  fit  if  you  don't  mind  — 
steady,  I  say" 

But  Berselius  heard  nothing,  knew  nothing  but  the 
scene  before  him,  and  Adams,  who  was  running  now 
after  the  afflicted  man,  who  had  broken  away  and  was 
making  straight  for  the  trees  beneath  which  the  village 
had  once  been,  heard  and  knew  nothing  of  what  lay  before 
and  around  Berselius. 

Berselius  had  stepped  out  of  the  forest  an  innocent 
man,  and  behold!  memory  had  suddenly  fronted  him 
with  a  hell  in  which  he  was  the  chief  demon. 

He  had  no  time  to  accommodate  himself  to  the  situa- 
tion, no  time  for  sophistry.  He  was  not  equipped  with 
the  forty  years  of  steadily  growing  callousness  that  had 
vanished;  the  fiend  who  had  inspired  him  with  the  lust 
for  torture  had  deserted  him,  and  the  sight  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  himself  came  as  suddenly  as  a  blow  in  the  face. 

Under  that  m'bina  tree  two  soldiers,  one  with  the 
haft  of  a  blood-stained  knife  between  his  teeth,  had 
mutilated  horribly  a  living  girl.  Little  Papeete  had 
been  decapitated  just  where  his  skull  lay  now;  the  shrieks 
and  wails  of  the  tortured  tore  the  sky  above  Berselius; 
but  Adams  heard  nothing  and  saw  nothing  but  Berselius 
raving  amidst  the  remains. 

Bones  lay  here  and  bones  lay  there,  clean  picked  by 
the  vultures  and  white  bleached  by  the  sun;  skulls,  jaw- 
bones, femurs,  broken  or  whole.  The  remains  of  the 


216  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

miserable  huts  faced  the  strewn  and  miserable  bones, 
and  the  trees  blew  their  golden  trumpets  over  all. 

As  Adams  looked  from  the  man  who  with  shrill  cries 
was  running  about  as  a  frantic  woman  runs  about,  to 
the  bones  on  the  ground,  he  guessed  the  tragedy  of 
Berselius.  But  he  was  to  hear  it  in  words  spoken  with  the 
torrid  eloquence  of  madness. 


PART  FOUR 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   AVENGER 

IT  WAS  a  hot  night  up  at  the  fort,  a  night  eloquent 
of  the  coming  rains.  The  door  of  the  guest  house 
stood  open  and  the  light  of  the  paraffin  lamp  lay 
upon  the  veranda  and  the  ground  of  the  yard,  forming 
a  parallelogram  of  topaz  across  which  were  flitting  con- 
tinually great  moth  shadows  big  as  birds. 

Andreas  Meeus  was  seated  at  the  white-wood  table 
of  the  sitting  room  before  a  big  blue  sheet  of  paper. 
He  held  a  pen  in  his  hand,  but  he  was  not  writing  just 
at  present;  he  was  reading  what  he  had  written. 

He  was,  in  fact,  making  up  his  three-monthly  report 
for  headquarters,  and  he  found  it  difficult,  because  the 
last  three  months  had  brought  in  little  rubber  and  less 
ivory.  A  lot  of  things  had  conspired  to  make  trade  bad. 
Sickness  had  swept  two  villages  entirely  away;  one  vil- 
lage, as  we  know,  had  revolted;  then,  vines  had  died 
from  some  mysterious  disease  in  two  of  the  very  best 
patches  of  the  forest.  All  these  explanations  Meeus  was 
now  putting  on  paper  for  the  edification  of  the  Congo 
Government.  He  was  devoting  a  special  paragraph  to 
the  revolt  of  the  village  by  the  Silent  Pools,  and  the 
punishment  he  had  dealt  out  to  the  natives.  Not  a 

219 


220  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

word  was  said  of  torture  and  slaughtering.  "Drastic 
Measures"  was  the  term  he  used,  a  term  perfectly  well 
understood  by  the  people  to  whom  he  was  writing. 

On  the  wall  behind  him  the  leopard-skin  still  hung, 
looking  now  shrivelled  at  the  edges  in  this  extreme  heat. 
On  the  wall  in  front  of  him  the  Congo  bows  and  poisoned 
arrows  looked  more  venomous  and  deadly  than  by  the 
light  of  day.  A  scorpion  twice  the  size  of  a  penny  was 
making  a  circuit  of  the  walls  just  below  the  ceiling; 
you  could  hear  a  faint  scratch  from  it  as  it  travelled  along, 
a  scratch  that  seemed  an  echo  of  Meeus's  pen  as  it 
travelled  across  the  paper. 

He  held  between  his  lips  the  everlasting  cigarette. 

Sitting  thus,  meditating,  pen  in  hand,  he  heard  sounds: 
the  sound  of  the  night  wind,  the  sound  of  one  of  the 
soldiers  singing  as  he  cleaned  his  rifle  —  the  men  always 
sang  over  this  business,  as  if  to  propitiate  the  gun  god  — 
the  scratch  of  the  scorpion  and  the  "creak,  creak"  of  a 
joist  warping  and  twisting  to  the  heat. 

But  the  sound  of  the  wind  was  the  most  arresting. 
It  would  come  over  the  forest  and  up  the  slope  and 
round  the  guest  house  with  a  long-drawn,  sweeping 
"Ha-a-a-r,"  and  sob  once  or  twice,  and  then  die  away 
down  the  slope  and  over  the  forest  and  away  and  beyond 
to  the  east,  where  Kilimanjaro  was  waiting  for  it,  crowned 
with  snow  on  his  throne  beneath  the  stars. 

But  the  wind  was  almost  dead  now  —  the  heat  of 
the  night  had  stifled  it.  The  faintest  breathing  of 
air  took  the  place  of  the  strong  puffs  that  had  sent 
the  flame  of  the  lamp  half  up  the  glass  chimney.  As 


THE  AVENGER  221 

Meeus  listened,  on  this  faint  breath  from  the  forest 
lie  heard  a  sound  — 

"Boom  —  boom"  —  very  faint,  and  as  if  someone  were 
striking  a  drum  in  a  leisurely  manner. 

"Boom  —  boom." 

A  great  man-ape  haunted  this  part  of  the  forest  of 
M'Bonga  like  an  evil  spirit.  He  had  wandered  here, 
perhaps  from  the  west  coast  forests.  Driven  away  from 
his  species — who  knows  ? — for  some  crime.  The  natives 
of  the  fort  had  caught  glimpses  of  him  now  and  then ;  he 
he  was  huge  and  old  and  gray,  and  now  in  the  darkness 
of  the  forest  was  striking  himself  on  the  chest,  standing 
there  in  the  gloom  of  the  leaves,  trampling  the  plantains 
under  foot,  taller  than  the  tallest  man,  smiting  himself 
in  the  pride  of  his  strength. 

"  Boom  —  boom." 

It  is  a  hair-lifting  sound  when  you  know  the  cause, 
but  it  left  Meeus  unmoved.  His  mind  was  too  full  of 
the  business  of  writing  his  report  to  draw  images 
or  listen  to  imagination;  all  the  same,  this  sinister 
drum-beat  acted  upon  his  subconscious  self  and,  scarcely 
knowing  why  he  did  so,  he  got  up  from  the  table  and 
came  outside  to  the  fort  wall  and  looked  over  away 
into  the  dark. 

There  was  not  a  star  in  the  sky.  A  dense  pall  of 
cloud  stretched  from  horizon  to  horizon,  and  the  wind,  as 
Meeus  stepped  from  the  veranda  into  the  darkness, 
died  away  utterly. 

He  stood  looking  into  the  dark.  He  could  make  out 
the  forest,  a  blackness  humped  and  crouching  in  the 


222  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

surrounding  blackness.     There  was  not  a  ray  of  light 
from  the  sky,  and  now  and  again  came  the  drum  — 

"Boom  — boom." 

Then  it  ceased,  and  a  bat  passed  so  close  that  the 
wind  of  it  stirred  his  hair.  He  spat  the  taint  of  it  from 
his  mouth,  and  returning  to  the  house,  seated  himself  at 
the  table  and  continued  his  work. 

But  the  night  was  to  be  fateful  in  sounds  and  sur- 
prises. He  had  not  been  sitting  five  minutes  when  a 
voice  from  the  blackness  outside  made  him  drop  his  pen 
and  listen. 

It  was  a  European  voice,  shouting  and  raving  and 
laughing,  and  Meeus,  as  he  listened,  clutched  at  the  table, 
for  the  voice  was  known  to  him.  It  was  the  voice  of 
Berselius ! 

Berselius,  who  was  hundreds  of  miles  away  in  the 
elephant  country ! 

Meeus  heard  his  own  name.  It  came  in  to  him  out 
of  the  darkness,  followed  by  a  peal  of  laughter.  Rapid 
steps  sounded  coming  across  the  courtyard,  and  the  sweat 
ran  from  Meeus's  face  and  his  stomach  crawled  as,  with 
a  bound  across  the  veranda,  a  huge  man  framed  himself 
in  the  doorway  and  stood  motionless  as  a  statue. 

For  the  first  moment  Meeus  did  not  recognize  Adams. 
He  was  filthy  and  tattered,  he  wore  no  coat,  and  his 
hunting  shirt  was  open  at  the  neck,  and  the  arms  of  it 
rolled  up  above  the  elbows. 

Adams,  for  the  space  of  ten  seconds,  stood  staring 
at  Meeus  from  under  his  pith  helmet.  The  face  under 
the  helmet  seemed  cast  from  bronze. 


THE  AVENGER  223 

Then  he  came  in  and  shut  the  door  behind  him,  walked 
to  the  table,  took  Meeus  by  the  coat  at  the  back  of  the 
neck,  and  lifted  him  up  as  a  man  lifts  a  dog  by  the  scruff. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  going  to  kill  the 
wretched  man  without  word  or  explanation,  but  he  mas- 
tered himself  with  a  supreme  effort,  put  him  down,  took 
the  vacant  seat  at  the  table  and  cried: 

"Stand  before  me  there." 

Meeus  stood.  He  held  on  to  the  table  with  his  left  hand 
and  with  his  right  he  made  pawing  movements  in  the  air. 

The  big  man  seated  at  the  table  did  not  notice.  He 
sat  for  a  few  seconds  with  both  hands  clasped  together, 
one  making  a  cup  for  the  other,  just  as  a  man  might 
sit  about  to  make  a  speech  and  carefully  considering 
his  opening  words. 

Then  he  spoke. 

"  Did  you  kill  those  people  by  the  Silent  Pools  ?" 

Meeus  made  no  reply,  but  drew  a  step  back  and  put 
out  his  hand,  as  if  fending  the  question  off,  as  if  asking 
for  a  moment  in  which  to  explain.  He  had  so  many 
things  to  say,  so  many  reasons  to  give,  but  he  could  say 
nothing,  for  his  tongue  was  paralyzed  and  his  lips  were  dry. 

" Did  you  kill  those  people  by  the  Silent  Pools?" 

The  awful  man  at  the  table  was  beginning  to  work 
himself  up.  He  had  risen  at  the  second  question,  and 
at  the  third  time  of  asking  he  seized  Meeus  by  the  shoul- 
ders. "  Did  you  kill  those  people ?" 

"Punishment,"  stuttered  Meeus. 

A  cry  like  the  cry  of  a  woman  and  a  crash  that  shook 
the  plaster  from  the  ceiling,  followed  the  fatal  word. 


224  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Adams  had  swung  the  man  aloft  and  dashed  him  against 
the  wall  with  such  force,  that  the  wattling  gave  and  the 
plaster  fell  in  flakes. 

Meeus  lay  still  as  death,  staring  at  his  executioner  with 
a  face  expressionless  and  white  as  the  plaster  flakes 
around  him. 

"  Get  up,"  said  Adams. 

Meeus  heard  and  moved  his  arms. 

"  Get  up." 

Again  the  arms  moved  and  the  body  raised  itself, 
but  the  legs  did  not  move.  "  I  cannot,"  said  Meeus. 

Adams  came  to  him  and  bending  down  pinched  his 
right  thigh  hard. 

"Do  you  feel  me  touching  you?" 

"No." 

Adams  did  the  same  to  the  other  thigh. 

"Do you  feel  that?" 

"No." 

"Lie  there,"  said  Adams. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  night.  A 
moment  later  he  returned;  after  him  came  the  two  por- 
ters bearing  Berselius  between  them. 

Berselius  was  quiet  now;  the  brain  fever  that  had 
stricken  him  had  passed  into  a  muttering  stage,  and  he 
let  himself  be  carried,  passive  as  a  bag  of  meal,  whilst 
Adams  went  before  with  the  lamp  leading  the  way  into 
the  bedroom.  Here,  on  one  of  the  beds,  the  porters  laid 
their  burden  down.  Then  they  came  back,  and  under 
the  directions  of  Adams  lifted  Meeus  and  carried  him 
into  the  bedroom  and  placed  him  on  the  second  bed. 


THE  AVENGER  225 

Adams,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  at  Meeus.  His  rage  had  spent  itself;  he  had 
avenged  the  people  at  the  Silent  Pools.  With  his  naked 
hands  he  had  inflicted  on  the  criminal  before  him  an 
injury  worse  than  the  injury  of  fire  or  sword. 

Meeus,  frightened  now  by  the  pity  in  the  face  of  the 
other,  horribly  frightened  by  the  unknown  thing  that 
had  happened  to  him,  making  him  dead  from  the  waist 
down,  moved  his  lips,  but  made  no  sound. 

"Your  back  is  broken,"  replied  Adams  to  the  ques- 
tion in  the  other's  eyes. 

Then  he  turned  to  Berselius. 

At  midnight  the  rains  broke  with  a  crash  of  thunder 
that  seemed  to  shake  the  universe. 

Adams,  worn  out,  was  seated  at  the  table  in  the  living 
room  smoking  some  tobacco  he  had  found  in  a  tin  on 
the  shelf,  and  listening  to  the  rambling  of  Berselius, 
when  the  thunder-clap  came,  making  the  lamp  shiver  on 
the  table. 

Meeus,  who  had  been  silent  since  his  death  sentence 
had  been  read  to  him,  cried  out  at  the  thunder,  but  Ber- 
selius did  not  heed  —  he  was  hunting  elephants  under 
a  burning  sun  in  a  country  even  vaster  than  the  elephant 
country. 

Adams  rose  up  and  came  to  the  door;  not  a  drop  of 
rain  had  fallen  yet.  He  crossed  the  yard  and  stood 
at  the  fort  wall  looking  into  blackness.  It  was  solid 
as  ebony,  and  he  could  hear  the  soldiers,  whose  huts  were 
outside  the  wall,  calling  to  one  another. 


226  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

A  great  splash  of  light  lit  up  the  whole  roof  of  the  forest 
clear  as  day,  and  the  darkness  shut  down  again  with  a 
bang  that  hit  the  ear  like  a  blow,  and  the  echoes  of  it 
roared  and  rumbled  and  muttered,  and  died,  and  Silence 
wrapped  herself  again  in  her  robe  and  sat  to  wait. 

Now,  there  was  a  faint  stirring  of  the  air,  increasing 
to  a  breeze,  and  far  away  a  sound  like  the  spinning  of 
a  top  came  on  the  breeze.  It  was  the  rain,  miles  away, 
coming  over  the  forest  in  a  solid  sheet,  the  sound  of  it 
increasing  on  the  great  drum  of  the  forest's  roof  to  a  roar. 

Another  flash  lit  the  world,  and  Adams  saw  the  rain. 

He  saw  what  it  is  given  to  very  few  men  to  see.  From 
horizon  to  horizon,  as  if  built  by  plumb,  line  and  square, 
stretched  a  glittering  wall,  reaching  from  the  forest  to 
the  sky.  The  base  of  this  wall  was  lost  in  snow-white 
billows  of  spray  and  mist. 

Never  was  there  so  tremendous  a  sight  as  this  infinite 
wall  and  the  Niagara  clouds  of  spray,  roaring,  living, 
and  lit  by  the  great  flash  one  second,  drowned  out  by  the 
darkness  and  the  thunder  the  next. 

Adams,  terrified,  ran  back  to  the  house,  shut  the  door, 
and  waited. 

The  house  was  solidly  built  and  had  withstood  many 
rains,  but  there  were  times  when  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  whole  place  must  be  washed  away  bodily.  Noth- 
ing could  be  heard  but  the  rain,  and  the  sound  of  such 
rain  is  far  more  terrifying  than  the  sound  of  thunder  or 
the  rumble  of  the  earthquake. 

There  were  times  when  he  said  to  himself,  "This  can- 
not last,"  yet  it  lasted.  With  the  lamp  in  his  hand  he 


THE  AVENGER  227 

went  into  the  sleeping  room  to  see  how  Berselius  and 
Meeus  were  doing.  Berselius  was  still,  to  judge  from 
the  movements  of  his  lips,  delirious,  and  just  the  same. 
Meeus  was  lying  with  his  hands  on  his  breast.  He  might 
have  been  asleep,  only  for  his  eyes,  wide  open  and  bright, 
and  following  every  movement  of  the  man  with  the  lamp. 

Meeus,  catching  the  other's  eye,  motioned  to  him  to 
come  near.  Then  he  tried  to  speak,  but  the  roar  outside 
made  it  impossible  to  hear  him.  Adams  pointed  to  the 
roof,  as  if  to  say,  "Wait  till  it  is  over,"  then  he  came 
back  to  the  sitting  room,  tore  the  leopard  skin  down 
from  the  wall,  rolled  it  up  for  a  pillow,  and  lay  down  with 
his  head  on  it. 

He  had  been  through  so  much  of  late  that  he  had  grown 
callous  and  case-hardened ;  he  did  not  care  much  whether 
the  place  was  washed  away  or  not  —  he  wanted  to  sleep, 
and  he  slept. 

Meeus,  left  alone,  lay  watching  the  glimmer  of  the 
lamp  shining  through  the  cracks  of  the  door,  and  lis- 
tening to  the  thunder  of  the  rain. 

This  was  the  greatest  rain  he  had  experienced.  He 
wondered  if  it  would  flood  the  go-down  and  get  at  the  rub- 
ber stored  there;  he  wondered  if  the  soldiers  had  deserted 
their  huts  and  taken  refuge  in  the  office.  These  thoughts 
were  of  not  the  slightest  interest  to  him;  they  just  came 
and  strayed  across  his  mind,  which  was  still  half -para- 
lyzed by  the  great  calamity  that  had  befallen  him. 

For  the  last  half-hour  an  iron  hand  seemed  round  his 
body  just  on  a  level  with  the  diaphragm;  this  seemed 
growing  tighter,  and  the  tighter  it  grew  the  more  difficult 


228  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

it  was  to  breathe.  The  fracture  had  been  very  high  up, 
but  he  knew  nothing  of  this;  he  knew  that  his  back  was 
broken,  and  that  men  with  broken  backs  die,  but  he  did 
not  fully  realize  that  he  was  going  to  die  till  —  all  at  once  — 
his  breathing  stopped  dead  of  its  own  accord,  and  then  of 
its  own  accord  went  on  rapidly  and  shallowly.  Then  he 
recognized  that  his  breathing  was  entirely  under  the 
control  of  something  over  which  he  had  no  control. 

This  is  the  most  terrible  thing  a  man  can  know,  for  it 
is  a  thing  that  no  man  ever  knows  till  he  is  in  the  hands 
of  death. 

It  was  daylight  when  Adams  awoke,  and  the  rain 
had  ceased. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  It  was  after 
sunrise,  but  the  sun  was  not  to  be  seen.  The  whole 
world  was  a  vapour,  but  through  which  the  forest  was 
dimly  visible.  The  soldiers  were  in  the  courtyard;  they 
had  just  come  out  of  the  office  where  they  had  taken  refuge 
during  the  night.  Their  huts  had  been  washed  away,  but 
they  did  not  seem  to  mind  a  bit;  they  showed  their  teeth 
in  a  grin,  and  shouted  something  when  they  saw  the  white 
man,  and  pointed  to  the  rainswept  yard  and  the  sky. 

Adams  nodded,  and  then  went  back  into  the  house 
and  into  the  bedroom,  where  he  found  Meeus  hanging 
head  downward  out  of  his  bed. 

Rubber  would  trouble  Andreas  Meeus  no  more; 
his  soul  had  gone  to  join  the  great  army  of  souls  in 
the  Beyond. 

It  is  strange  enough  to  look  upon  the  body  of  a  man 


THE  AVENGER  229 

you  have  killed.     But  Adams  had  no  more  pity  or  com- 
punction in  his  mind  than  if  Meeus  had  been  a  stoat. 

He  turned  to  Berselius,  who  was  sleeping.  The  delirium 
had  passed,  and  he  was  breathing  evenly  and  well.  There 
was  hope  for  him  yet  —  hope  for  his  body  if  not  for  his 
mind. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  VOICE   OP  THE    FOREST   BY   NIGHT 

THE  first  thing  to  be  done  was   to    bury  Meeus. 
And  now  came   the    question,  How    would  the 
soldiers  take  the  death  of  the   Chef  de  Poste? 
They  knew  nothing  of  it  yet.     Would  they  revolt,  or 
would  they  seek  to  revenge  him,  guessing  him  to  have 
been  killed. 

Adams  did  not  know  and  he  did  not  care.  He  half 
hoped  there  would  be  trouble.  The  Congo  had  burst 
upon  his  view,  stripped  of  shams,  in  all  its  ferocity,  just  as 
the  great  scene  of  the  killing  had  burst  upon  Berselius. 
All  sorts  of  things  —  from  the  Hostage  House  of  Yandjali 
to  the  Hostage  House  of  M'Bassa,  from  Mass  to 
Papeete's  skull  —  connected  themselves  up  and  made 
a  skeleton,  from  which  he  constructed  that  great  and 
ferocious  monster,  the  Congo  State.  The  soldiers,  with 
their  filed  teeth,  were  part  of  the  monster,  and,  such  was 
the  depth  of  fury  in  his  heart,  he  would  have  welcomed 
a  fight,  so  that  he  might  express  with  his  arms  what 
his  tongue  ached  to  say. 

The  original  man  loomed  large  in  Adams.  God  had 
given  him  a  character  benign  and  just,  a  heart  tempered 
to  mercy  and  kindliness;  all  these  qualities  had  been 

230 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  FOREST  BY  NIGHT    231 

outraged  and  were  now  under  arms.  They  had  given  a 
mandate  to  the  original  man  to  act.  The  death  of  Meeus 
was  the  first  result. 

He  went  to  the  shelf  where  Meeus  had  kept  his  official 
letters  and  took  Meeus's  Mauser  pistol  from  it.  It  was 
in  a  holster  attached  to  a  belt.  He  strapped  the  belt 
round  his  waist,  drew  the  pistol  from  the  holster  and 
examined  it.  It  was  loaded,  and  in  an  old  cigar-box  he 
found  a  dozen  clips  of  cartridges.  He  put  three  of  these 
in  his  pocket  and  with  the  pistol  at  his  side  came  out  into 
the  courtyard. 

Huge  billows  of  white  cloud  filled  the  sky,  broken  here 
and  there  by  a  patch  of  watery  blue.  The  whole  earth 
was  steaming  and  the  forest  was  absolutely  smoking. 
One  could  have  sworn  it  was  on  fire  in  a  dozen  places  when 
the  spirals  of  mist  rose  and  broke  and  vanished  like  the 
steam  clouds  from  locomotive  chimneys. 

He  crossed  the  courtyard  to  the  go-down,  undid  the 
locking  bar  and  found  what  he  wanted.  Half  a  dozen 
mattocks  stood  by  the  rubber  bales  —  he  had  noticed 
them  when  the  stores  had  been  taken  out  for  the 
expedition;  they  were  still  in  the  same  place  and,  taking 
two  of  them,  he  went  to  the  break  in  the  wall  that  gave 
exit  from  the  courtyard  and  called  to  the  soldiers,  who 
were  busy  at  work  rebuilding  their  huts. 

They  came  running.  He  could  not  speak  twenty  words 
of  their  language,  but  he  made  them  line  up  with  a  move- 
ment of  his  arm. 

Then  he  addressed  them  in  a  perfectly  unprintable 
speech.  It  was  delivered  in  unshod  American  —  a 


232  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

language  he  had  not  spoken  for  years.  It  took  in  each 
individual  of  the  whole  gang,  it  told  them  they  were  dogs 
and  sons  of  dogs,  killers  of  men,  unmentionable  carrion, 
cayotes,  kites,  and  that  he  would  have  hanged  them  each 
and  individually  with  his  own  hands  (and  I  believe  by 
some  legerdemain  of  strength  he  would),  but  that  they 
were  without  hearts,  souls  or  intellect,  not  responsible 
creatures,  tools  of  villains  that  he,  Adams,  would  expose 
and  get  even  with  yet. 

Furthermore,  that  if  by  a  look  or  movement  they  dis- 
obeyed his  orders,  he  would  make  them  sweat  tears  and 
weep  blood,  so  help  him  God.  Amen. 

They  understood  what  he  said.  At  least  they  under- 
stood the  gist  of  it.  They  had  found  a  new  and  angry 
master,  and  not  an  eye  was  raised  when  Adams  stood 
silent;  some  looked  at  their  toes  and  some  at  the  ground, 
some  looked  this  way,  some  that,  but  none  at  the  big, 
ferocious  man,  with  three  weeks'  growth  of  beard,  stand- 
ing before  them  and,  literally,  over  them. 

Then  he  chose  two  of  them  and  motioned  them  to 
follow  to  the  guest  house.  There  he  brought  them 
into  the  sleeping  room  and  pointed  to  the  body  of  Meeus, 
motioning  them  to  take  it  up  and  carry  it  out.  The  men 
rolled  their  eyes  at  the  sight  of  the  Chef  de  Poste,  but  they 
said  no  word;  one  took  the  head,  the  other  the  feet,  and 
between  them  they  carried  the  burden,  led  by  their  new 
commander,  through  the  dwelling  room,  across  the 
veranda  and  then  across  the  yard. 

The  rest  of  the  soldiers  were  in  a  group  near  the  gate. 
When  they  saw  the  two  men  and  their  burden,  they  set 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  FOREST  BY  NIGHT    233 

up  a  chattering  like  a  flock  of  magpies,  which,  however, 
instantly  ceased  at  the  approach  of  Adams. 

He  pointed  to  the  two  mattocks  which  he  had  placed 
against  the  wall.  They  understood  what  he  meant;  the 
last  Chef  de  Paste  had  shot  himself  in  the  presence  of  the 
District  Commissioner,  and  they  had  dug  his  grave. 

"Here,"  said  Adams,  stopping  and  pointing  to  a  spot 
at  a  convenient  distance  from  the  walls. 

When  the  body  was  buried,  Adams  stood  for  a  second 
looking  at  the  mound  of  earth,  wet  and  flattened  down 
by  blows  of  the  spades. 

He  had  no  prayers  to  offer  up.  Meeus  would  have 
to  go  before  his  Maker  just  as  he  was,  and  explain 
things  —  explain  all  that  business  away  there  at  the 
Silent  Pools  and  other  things  as  well.  Prayers  over 
his  tomb  or  flowers  on  it  would  not  help  that  explanation 
one  little  bit. 

Then  Adams  turned  away  and  the  soldiers  trooped 
after  him. 

He  had  looked  into  the  office  and  seen  the  rifles  and 
ammunition  which  they  had  placed  there  out  of  the  wet. 
A  weak  man  would  have  locked  the  office  door  and  so 
have  deprived  the  soldiers  of  their  arms,  but  Adams  was 
not  a  weak  man. 

He  led  his  followers  to  the  office,  handed  them  their 
arms,  carefully  examining  each  rifle  to  see  that  it  was 
clean  and  uninjured,  drew  them  up  on  a  line,  addressed 
them  in  some  more  unprintable  language  but  in  a  milder 
tone,  dismissed  them  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  and  returned 
to  the  house. 


234  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

As  he  left  them  the  wretched  creatures  all  gave  a  shout 
—  a  shout  of  acclamation. 

This  was  the  man  for  them  —  very  different  from 
the  pale-faced  Meeus  —  this  was  a  man  they  felt  who 
would  lead  them  to  more  unspeakable  butchery  than 
Meeus  had  ever  done.  Therefore  they  shouted,  piled 
their  arms  in  the  office  and  returned  to  the  rebuilding  of 
their  huts  with  verve. 

They  were  not  physiognomists,  these  gentlemen. 

Berselius  awoke  from  sleep  at  noon,  but  he  was  so 
weak  that  he  could  scarcely  move  his  lips.  Fortunately 
there  were  some  goats  at  the  fort,  and  Adams  fed  him  with 
goats'  milk  from  a  spoon,  just  as  one  feeds  an  infant. 
Then  the  sick  man  fell  asleep  and  the  rain  came  down 
again  —  not  in  a  thunder  shower  this  time,  but  steadily, 
mournfully,  playing  a  tattoo  on  the  zinc  roof  of  the 
veranda,  filling  the  place  with  drizzling  sounds,  dreary 
beyond  expression.  With  the  rain  came  gloom  so  deep 
that  Adams  had  to  light  the  paraffin  lamp.  There  were 
no  books,  no  means  of  recreation,  nothing  to  read  but  the 
old  official  letters  and  the  half-written  report  which  the 
dead  man  had  left  on  the  table  before  leaving  earth  to 
make  his  report  elsewhere.  Adams  having  glanced  at 
this,  tore  it  in  pieces,  then  he  sat  smoking  and  thinking 
and  listening  to  the  rain. 

Toward  night  a  thunderstorm  livened  things  up  a  little, 
and  a  howling  wind  came  over  the  forest  on  the  heels  of 
the  storm. 

Adams  came  out  on  the  veranda  to  listen. 

He  could  have  sworn  that  a  great  sea  was  roaring  below 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  FOREST  BY  NIGHT  235 

in  the  darkness.  He  could  hear  the  waves,  the  boom 
and  burst  of  them,  the  suck-back  of  the  billows  tearing 
the  shrieking  shale  to  their  hearts,  the  profound  and 
sonorous  roar  of  leagues  of  coast.  Imagination  could  do 
anything  with  that  sound  except  figure  the  reality  of  it  or 
paint  the  tremendous  forest  bending  to  the  wind  in  billows 
of  foliage  a  hundred  leagues  long;  the  roar  of  the  cotton- 
woods,  the  cry  of  the  palm,  the  sigh  of  the  withered  euphor- 
bias, the  thunderous  drumming  of  the  great  plantain  leaves, 
all  joining  in  one  tremendous  symphony  led  by  the  trum- 
pets of  the  wind,  broken  by  rainbursts  from  the  rushing 
clouds  overhead,  and  all  in  viewless  darkness,  black  as 
the  darkness  of  the  pit. 

This  was  a  new  phase  of  the  forest,  which  since  the 
day  Adams  entered  it  first,  had  steadily  been  explaining 
to  him  the  endlessness  of  its  mystery,  its  wonder,  and 
its  terror 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MOONLIGHT    ON   THE    POOLS 

NOW  began  for  Adams  a  time  of  trial,  enough  to 
break  the  nerve  of  any  ordinary  man.  Day 
followed  day  and  week  followed  week,  Berselius 
gaining  strength  so  slowly  that  his  companion  began  to 
despair  at  last,  fancying  that  the  main  fountain  and 
source  of  life  had  been  injured,  and  that  the  stream  would 
never  flow  again  but  in  a  trickle,  to  be  stopped  at  the 
least  shock  or  obstruction. 

The  man  was  too  weak  to  talk,  he  could  just  say  "Yes" 
and  "No"  in  answer  to  a  question,  and  it  was  always 
"Better"  when  he  was  asked  how  he  felt,  but  he  never 
spoke  a  word  of  his  own  volition. 

Nearly  every  day  it  rained,  and  it  rained  in  a  hundred 
different  ways  —  from  the  thunderous  shower-bath  rush 
of  water  that  threatened  to  beat  the  roof  in,  to  the  light 
spitting  shower  shone  through  by  the  sun.  Sometimes 
the  clouds  would  divide,  roll  up  in  snow-white  billows  of 
appalling  height,  and  over  the  fuming  foliage  a  rainbow 
would  form,  and  flocks  of  birds,  as  if  released  by  some 
wizard,  break  from  the  reeking  trees.  Adams  could  hear 
their  cries  as  he  stood  at  the  foot  wall  watching  them 
circle  in  the  air,  and  his  heart  went  out  to  them,  for  they 

236 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  POOLS  237 

were  the  only  living  things  in  the  world  around  him 
that  spoke  in  a  kindly  tongue  or  hinted  at  the  tender- 
ness of  God. 

All  else  was  vast  and  of  tragic  proportions.  The 
very  rainbow  was  titanic;  it  seemed  primeval  as  the  land 
over  which  it  stretched  and  the  people  to  whom  it  bore 
no  promise. 

But  the  forest  was  the  thing  which  filled  Adams's 
heart  with  a  craving  for  freedom  and  escape  that  rose  to 
a  passion. 

He  had  seen  it  silent  in  the  dry  season;  he  had  seen  it 
divided  by  the  great  rain-wall  and  answering  the  down- 
pour with  snow-white  billows  of  mist  and  spray;  he  had 
heard  it  roaring  in  the  dark;  it  had  trapped  him,  beaten 
him  with  its  wet,  green  hands,  sucked  him  down  in  its 
quagmires,  shown  him  its  latent,  slow,  but  unalterable 
ferocity,  its  gloom,  its  devilment. 

The  rubber  collector  who  had  helped  to  carry  Berselius 
to  the  fort  had  gone  back  to  his  place  and  task  —  the  forest 
had  sucked  him  back.  This  gnome  had  explained  with- 
out speaking  what  the  gloom  and  the  quagmire,  and  the 
rope-like  lianas  had  hinted,  what  the  Silent  Pools  had 
shouted,  what  the  vulture  and  the  kite  had  laid  bare,  what 
the  heart  had  whispered:  There  is  no  God  in  the  forest 
of  M'Bonga,  no  law  but  the  law  of  the  leopard,  no  mercy 
but  the  mercy  of  Death. 

The  forest  had  become  for  Adams  a  living  nightmare 
—  his  one  desire  in  life  now  was  to  win  free  of  it,  and 
never  did  it  look  more  sinister  than  when,  rainbow-arched 
and  silently  fuming,  it  lay  passive,  sun-stricken,  the  palms 


238  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

bursting  above  the  mist  and  the  great  clouds  rolling  away 
in  billows,  as  if  to  expose  fully  the  wonder  of  those  pri- 
meval leagues  of  tree- tops  sunlit,  mist-strewn,  where  the 
feathery  fingers  of  the  palms  made  banners  of  the  wrack 
and  the  baobabs  held  fog-banks  in  their  foliage. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  Berselius  showed  signs  of 
amendment.  He  could  raise  himself  now  in  bed  and 
speak.  He  said  little,  but  it  was  evident  that  his  memory 
had  completely  returned,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  was 
still  the  changed  man.  The  iron-hearted  Berselius,  the 
man  of  daring  and  nerve,  was  not  here,  he  had  been  left 
behind  in  the  elephant  country  in  the  immeasurable 
south. 

The  mist  had  departed  entirely  from  his  mind;  his 
whole  past  was  clear  before  him,  and  with  his  new  mind 
he  could  reckon  it  up  and  see  the  bad  and  the  good.  The 
extraordinary  fact  was  that  in  reviewing  this  past  he  did 
not  feel  terrified  —  it  seemed  a  dead  thing  and  almost  as 
the  past  of  some  other  man.  All  those  acts  seemed  to 
Berselius  to  have  been  committed  by  a  man  who  was  now 
dead. 

He  could  regret  the  acts  of  that  man  and  he  could 
seek  to  atone  for  them,  but  he  felt  no  personal  remorse. 
"He  was  not  I,"  would  have  reasoned  the  mind  of  Berse- 
lius; "those  acts  were  not  my  acts,  because  now  I  could 
not  commit  them,"  so  he  would  have  reasoned  had  he 
reasoned  on  the  matter  at  all.  But  he  did  not.  In  that 
wild  outburst  by  the  Silent  Pools  the  ego  had  screamed 
aloud,  raving  against  itself,  raving  against  the  trick  that 
fate  had  played  it,  by  making  it  the  slave  of  two  personal- 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  POOLS  239 

ities,  and  then  torturing  it  by  showing  it  the  acts  of  the 
old  personality  through  the  eyes  of  the  new. 

When  the  brain  fever  had  passed,  it  awoke  untroubled; 
the  junction  had  been  effected,  the  new  Berselius  was  It, 
and  all  the  acts  of  the  old  Berselius  were  foreign  to  it  and 
far  away. 

It  is  thus  the  man  who  gets  religion  feels  when  the 
great  change  comes  on  his  brain.  After  the  brain-storm 
and  the  agony  of  new  birth  comes  the  peace  and  the  feel- 
ing that  he  is  "another  man."  He  feels  that  all  his  sins 
are  washed  away;  in  other  words,  he  has  lost  all  sense 
of  responsibility  for  the  crimes  he  committed  in  the  old 
life,  he  has  cast  them  off  like  an  old  suit  of  clothes.  The 
old  man  is  dead.  Ah,  but  is  he?  Can  you  atone  for 
your  vices  by  losing  your  smell  and  taste  for  vice, 
and  slip  out  of  your  debt  for  crime  by  becoming 
another  man? 

Does  the  old  man  ever  die  ? 

The  case  of  Berselius  stirs  one  to  ask  the  question, 
which  is  more  especially  interesting  as  it  is  prompted  by 
a  case  not  unique  but  almost  typical. 

The  interesting  point  in  Berselius's  case  lay  in  the 
question  as  to  whether  his  change  of  mind  was  initiated 
by  the  injury  received  in  the  elephant  country  or  by  the 
shock  at  the  Silent  Pools.  In  other  words,  was  it  due 
to  some  mechanical  pressure  on  the  brain  produced  by  the 
accident,  or  was  it  due  to  "repentance"  on  seeing  sud- 
denly unveiled  the  hideous  drama  in  which  he  had  taken 
part? 

This  remains  to  be  seen. 


240  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

At  the  end  of  the  fourth  week  Berselius  was  able  to 
leave  his  bed,  and  every  day  now  marked  a  steady  improve- 
ment in  strength. 

Not  a  word  about  the  past  did  he  say,  not  a  question 
did  he  ask,  and  what  surprised  Adams  especially,  not 
a  question  did  he  put  about  Meeus,  till  one  day  in  the 
middle  of  the  fifth  week. 

Berselius  was  seated  in  one  of  the  arm  chairs  of  the 
sitting  room  when  he  suddenly  raised  his  head. 

"By  the  way,"  said  he,  "where  is  the  Chef  de  Poste ?  " 

"He  is  dead,"  replied  Adams. 

"Ah!"  said  Berselius;  there  was  almost  a  note  of  relief 
in  his  voice.  He  said  nothing  more  and  Adams  volun- 
teered no  explanation,  for  the  affair  was  one  entirely 
between  Meeus,  himself,  and  God. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Berselius,  who  seemed  deep  in 
thought,  raised  his  head  again. 

"We  must  get  away  from  here.  I  am  nearly  strong 
enough  to  go  now.  It  will  be  a  rough  journey  in  these 
rains,  but  it  will  be  a  much  shorter  road  than  the  road 
we  came  by." 

"How  so?" 

"We  came  from  Yandjali  right  through  the  forest 
before  striking  south  to  here;  we  will  now  make  straight 
for  the  river,  along  the  rubber  road.  I  think  the  post 
on  the  river  which  we  will  reach  is  called  M'Bina,  it  is  a 
hundred  miles  above  Yandjali;  we  can  get  a  boat  from 
there  to  Leopoldsville.  I  have  been  thinking  it  all  out 
this  morning." 

"How  about  a  guide?" 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  POOLS  241 

"These  soldiers  here  know  the  rubber  track,  for  they 
often  escort  the  loads." 

"Good,"  said  Adams.  "I  will  have  some  sort  of  litter 
rigged  up  and  we  will  carry  you.  I  am  not  going  to  let 
you  walk  in  your  present  condition." 

Berselius  bowed  his  head. 

"I  am  very  sensible,"  said  he,  "of  the  care  and  atten- 
tion you  have  bestowed  on  me  during  the  past  weeks. 
I  owe  you  a  considerable  debt,  which  I  will  endeavour 
to  repay,  at  all  events,  by  following  your  directions 
implicitly.  Let  the  litter  be  made,  and  if  you  will  send 
me  in  the  corporal  of  those  men,  I  will  talk  to  him  in  his 
own  language  and  explain  what  is  to  be  done." 

"Good,"  said  Adams,  and  he  went  out  and  found  the 
corporal  and  sent  him  in  to  Berselius. 

"Good!"  The  word  was  not  capacious  enough  to 
express  what  he  felt.  Freedom,  Light,  Humanity,  the 
sight  of  a  civilized  face,  for  these  he  ached  with  a  great 
longing,  and  they  were  all  there  at  the  end  of  the  rubber 
road,  only  waiting  to  be  met  with. 

He  went  to  the  fort  wall  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  forest. 

"Another  ten  days,"  said  Adams. 

The  forest,  whose  spirit  counted  time  by  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  years,  waved  its  branches  to  the  wind. 

A  spit  of  rain  from  a  passing  cloud  hit  Adams's  cheek, 
and  in  the  "hush"  of  the  trees  there  seemed  a  murmur 
of  derision  and  the  whisper  of  a  threat. 

"It  is  not  well  to  shake  your  fist  at  the  gods  —  in 
the  open." 

Adams  went  back  to  the  house  to  begin  preparations, 


242  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

and  for  the  next  week  he  was  busy.  From  some  spare 
canvas  and  bamboos  in  the  go-down  he  made  a  litter 
strong  enough  to  carry  Berselius  —  he  had  to  do  nearly 
all  the  work  himself,  for  the  soldiers  were  utterly  useless 
as  workmen.  Then  stores  had  to  be  arranged  and  put 
together  in  a  convenient  form  for  carrying;  clothes  had 
to  be  mended  and  patched  —  even  his  boots  had  to  be 
cobbled  with  twine  —  but  at  last  all  was  ready,  and  on 
the  day  before  they  started  the  weather  improved.  The 
sun  came  out  strong  and  the  clouds  drew  away  right  to 
the  horizon,  where  they  lay  piled  in  white  banks  like 
ranges  of  snow-covered  mountains. 

That  afternoon,  an  hour  before  sunset,  Adams 
announced  his  intention  of  going  on  a  little  expedition 
of  his  own. 

"I  shall  only  be  a  few  hours  away,"  said  he,  "five  at 
most." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Berselius. 

"Oh,  just  down  into  the  woods,"  replied  Adams. 
Then  he  left  the  room  before  his  companion  could  ask 
any  more  questions  and  sought  out  the  corporal. 

He  beckoned  the  savage  to  follow  him,  and  struck 
down  the  slope  in  the  direction  of  the  Silent  Pools.  When 
they  reached  the  forest  edge  he  pointed  before  them  and 
said,  "Matabayo." 

The  man  understood  and  led  the  way,  which  was 
not  difficult,  for  the  feet  of  the  rubber  collectors  had 
beaten  a  permanent  path.  There  was  plenty  of  light, 
too,  for  the  moon  was  already  in  the  sky,  only  waiting  for 
the  sun  to  sink  before  blazing  out. 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  POOLS  243 

When  they  were  half-way  on  their  journey  heavy  dusk 
fell  on  them  suddenly,  and  deepened  almost  to  dark; 
then,  nearly  as  suddenly,  all  the  forest  around  them  glowed 
green  to  the  light  of  the  moon. 

The  Silent  Pools  and  the  woods,  when  they  reached 
them,  lay  in  mist  and  moonlight,  making  a  picture  unfor- 
gettable for  ever. 

It  recalled  to  Adams  that  picture  of  Bore's,  illustrating 
the  scene  from  the  "Idylls  of  the  King,"  where  Arthur 
labouring  up  the  pass  "all  in  a  misty  moonlight,"  had 
trodden  on  the  skeleton  of  the  once  king,  from  whose  head 
the  crown  rolled  like  a  rivulet  of  light  down  to  the  tarn  — 
the  misty  tarn,  where  imagination  pictured  Death  waitin] 
to  receive  it  and  hide  it  in  his  robe. 

The  skeleton  of  no  king  lay  here,  only  the  poor  bonescj 
still  unburied  of  the  creatures  that  a  far-off  king  had 
murdered.     The    rain    had    washed    them    about,    and 
Adams  had  to  search  and  search  before  he  found  what  he 
had  come  to  find. 

At  last  he  saw  it.  The  skull  of  a  child,  looking  like 
a  white  stone  amidst  the  grass.  He  wrapped  it  in  leaves 
torn  from  the  trees  near  by,  and  the  grim  corporal  stood 
watching  him,  and  wondering,  no  doubt,  for  what  fetish 
business  the  white  man  had  come  to  find  the  thing. 

Then  Adams  with  the  dreary  bundle  under  his  arm 
looked  around  him  at  the  other  remains  and  swore  — 
swore  by  the  God  who  had  made  him,  by  the  mother 
who  had  borne  him,  and  the  manhood  that  lay  in 
him,  to  rest  not  nor  stay  till  he  had  laid  before  the 
face  of  Europe  the  skull  of  Papeete  and  the  acts  of 


244  THE  POOLS  OP  SILENCE 

the  terrible  scoundrel  who  for  long  years  had  system- 
atically murdered  for  money. 

Then,  followed  by  the  savage,  he  turned  and  retook 
his  road.  At  the  wood's  edge  he  looked  back  at  the 
silent  scene,  and  it  seemed  to  look  at  him  with  the  mute- 
ness and  sadness  of  a  witness  who  cannot  speak,  of  a 
woman  who  cannot  tell  her  sorrow. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE   RIVER   OF   GOLD 

NEXT  morning  they  started. 
The  corporal,  three  of  the  soldiers,  and  the 
two  porters  made  up  the  escort. 

Berselius,  who  was  strong  enough  to  walk  a  little  way, 
began  the  journey  on  foot,  but  they  had  not  gone  five 
miles  on  their  road  when  he  showed  signs  of  fatigue,  and 
Adams  insisted  on  him  taking  to  the  litter. 

It  was  the  same  road  by  which  Felix  had  led  them,  but 
it  was  very  different  travelling;  where  the  ground  had 
been  hard  underfoot  it  was  now  soft,  and  where  it  had 
been  elastic  it  was  now  boggy;  it  was  more  gloomy,  and 
the  forest  was  filled  with  watery  voices;  where  it  dipped 
down  into  valleys,  you  could  hear  the  rushing  and  mourn- 
ing of  waters.  Tiny  trickles  of  water  had  become  rivulets 
—  rivulets  streams. 

Away  in  the  elephant  country  it  was  the  same,  the  dry 
river-bed  where  they  had  found  the  carcass  of  the  elephant, 
was  now  the  bed  of  rushing  water.  The  elephant  and 
antelope  herds  were  wandering  in  clouds  on  the  plains. 
A  hundred  thousand  streams  from  Tanganyika  to  Yand- 
jali  were  leaping  to  form  rivers  flowing  for  one  destination, 

the  Congo  and  the  sea. 

245 


246  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

On  the  second  day  of  their  journey,  an  accident 
happened ;  one  of  the  porters,  released  for  a  spell  from 
bearing  the  litter,  and  loitering  behind,  was  bitten  by 
a  snake. 

He  died  despite  all  Adams's  attempts  to  save  him, 
and,  leaving  his  body  to  be  buried  by  the  leopards,  they 
passed  on. 

But  the  soldiers,  especially  the  corporal,  took  the 
matter  strangely.  These  bloodthirsty  wretches,  inured 
to  death  and  thinking  nothing  of  it,  seemed  cast  down, 
and  at  the  camping  place  they  drew  aside,  chattered 
together  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  corporal  came  to 
Berselius  and  began  a  harangue,  his  eyes  rolling  toward 
Adams  now  and  then  as  he  proceeded. 

Berselius  listened,  spoke  a  few  words,  and  then  turned 
to  Adams. 

"He  says  you  have  brought  something  with  you  that 
is  unlucky,  and  that  unless  you  throw  it  away,  we  shall 
all  die." 

"I  know  what  he  means,"  replied  Adams;  "I  have 
brought  a  relic  from  that  village  by  the  Silent  Pools.  I 
shall  not  throw  it  away.  You  can  tell  him  so." 

Berselius  spoke  to  the  man  who  still  stood  sullenly 
waiting,  and  who  was  opening  his  mouth  to  continue 
his  complaints,  when  Adams  seized  him  by  the  shoulders, 
turned  him  round,  and  with  a  kick,  sent  him  back  to  his 
companions. 

"You  should  not  have  done  that,"  said  Berselius; 
"these  people  are  very  difficult  to  deal  with." 

"Difficult!"  said  Adams.     He  stared  at  the  soldiers 


THE  RIVER  OF  GOLD  247 

who  were  grouped  together,  slapped  the  Mauser  pistol 
at  his  side,  and  then  pointed  to  the  tent. 

The  men  ceased  muttering,  and  came  as  beaten  dogs 
come  at  the  call  of  their  master,  seized  the  tent  and  put 
it  up. 

But  Berselius  still  shook  his  head.  He  knew  these 
people,  their  treachery,  and  their  unutterable  heart- 
lessness. 

"How  far  are  we  from  the  river  now?"  asked  Adams, 
that  night,  as  they  sat  by  the  fire,  for  which  the  corporal 
by  some  miracle  of  savagery  had  found  sufficient  dry  fuel 
in  the  reeking  woods  around  them. 

"Another  two  days'  march,"  replied  Berselius,  "I  trust 
that  we  shall  reach  it." 

"Oh,  we'll  get  there,"  said  Adams,  "and  shall  I  tell 
you  why  ?  Well,  we'll  get  there  just  because  of  that  relic 
I  am  carrying.  God  has  given  me  it  to  take  to  Europe. 
To  take  to  Europe  and  show  to  men  that  they  may  see 
the  devilment  of  this  place,  and  the  work  of  Satan  that  is 
being  carried  out  here." 

Berselius  bowed  his  head. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  he,  at  last,  slowly  and 
thoughtfully. 

Adams  said  no  more.  The  great  change  in  his 
companion  stood  as  a  barrier  between  him  and  the 
loathing  he  would  have  felt  if  Berselius  had  been  still 
himself. 

The  great  man  had  fallen,  and  was  now  very  low.  That 
vision  of  him  in  his  madness  by  the  Silent  Pools  had  placed 
him  forever  on  a  plane  above  others.  God  had  dealt 


248  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

with  this  man  very  visibly,  and  the  hand  of  God  was 
still  upon  him. 

Next  day  they  resumed  their  journey.  The  soldiers 
were  cheerful  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  about  their 
grievance,  but  Berselius  felt  more  uneasy  than  ever. 
He  knew  these  people,  and  that  nothing  could  move  them 
to  mirth  and  joy  that  was  not  allied  to  devilment,  or 
treachery,  or  death. 

But  he  said  nothing,  for  speech  was  useless. 

Next  morning  when  they  woke  they  found  the  soldiers 
gone;  they  had  taken  the  porter  with  them,  and  as  much 
of  the  provisions  as  they  could  steal  without  disturbing 
the  white  men. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Berselius. 

Adams  raged  and  stormed,  but  Berselius  was  perfectly 
calm. 

"The  thing  I  fear  most,"  said  he,  "is  that  they  have 
led  us  out  of  our  road.  Did  you  notice  whether  we  were 
in  the  track  for  the  last  mile  or  so  of  our  journey 
yesterday?" 

"No,"  replied  Adams,  "I  just  followed  on.  Good 
God!  if  it  is  so  we  are  lost." 

Now,  the  rubber  road  was  just  a  track  so  faint,  that 
without  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  ground  where  years  of 
travel  had  left  just  a  slight  indication  of  the  way,  a 
European  would  infallibly  lose  it.  Savages,  who  have 
eyes  in  their  feet,  hold  it  all  right,  and  go  along  with  their 
burdens  even  in  the  dark. 

Adams  searched,  but  he  could  find  no  track. 

"We  must   leave   all   these  things   behind   us,"   said 


THE  RIVER  OF  GOLD  249 

Berselius,  pointing  to  the  tent  and  litter.  "I  am  strong 
enough  to  walk;  we  must  strike  through  the  forest  and 
leave  the  rest  to  chance." 

"Which  way?"  asked  Adams. 

"It  does  not  matter.  These  men  have  purposely  lost 
us,  and  we  do  not  know  in  the  least  the  direction  of  the 
river." 

Adams's  eyes  fell  on  a  bundle  wrapped  in  cloth.  It 
was  the  relic. 

He  knelt  down  beside  it,  and  carefully  removed  the 
cloth  without  disturbing  the  position  of  the  skull. 

He  noted  the  direction  in  which  the  eye-holes  pointed. 

"We  will  go  in  that  direction,"  said  he.  "We  have 
lost  ourselves,  but  God  has  not  lost  us." 

"Let  it  be  so,"  replied  Berselius. 

Adams  collected  what  provisions  he  could  carry,  tied 
the  skull  to  his  belt  with  a  piece  of  rope  taken  from  the 
tent,  and  led  the  way  amidst  the  trees. 

Two  days  later,  at  noon,  still  lost,  unutterably  weary, 
they  saw  through  the  trees  before  them  a  sight  to  slay  all 
hope. 

It  was  the  tent  and  the  litter  just  as  they  had  left  them. 

Two  days'  heart-breaking  labour  had  brought  them 
to  this  by  all  sorts  of  paths. 

They  had  not  wandered  in  a  circle.  They  had  travelled 
in  segments  of  circles,  and  against  all  mathematical 
probability,  had  struck  the  camp. 

But  the  camp  was  not  tenantless.  Someone  was  there. 
A  huge  man-like  form,  a  monstrous  gorilla,  the  evil  spirit 


250  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

that  haunted  the  forest,  bent  and  gray  and  old -looking, 
was  picking  the  things  about,  sniffing  at  them,  turning 
them  over. 

When  they  saw  him  first,  he  was  holding  the  tent-cloth 
between  both  his  hands  just  as  a  draper  holds  a  piece  of 
cloth,  then  he  ripped  it  up  with  a  rending  sound,  flung  the 
pieces  away,  and  began  turning  over  the  litter. 

He  heard  the  steps  of  the  human  beings,  and  sat  up, 
looking  around  him,  sniffing  the  air.  He  could  not  see 
them,  for  he  was  purblind. 

The  human  beings  passed  on  into  the  terrible  nowhere 
of  the  forest. 

When  you  are  lost  like  this,  you  cannot  rest.  You 
must  keep  moving,  even  though  you  are  all  but  hopeless 
of  reaching  freedom. 

Two  days  later  they  were  still  lost,  and  now  entirely 
hopeless. 

To  torment  their  hearts  still  more,  faint  sun-rays  came 
through  the  leaves  overhead. 

The  sun  was  shining  overhead ;  the  sun  they  would  never 
see  again.  It  was  the  very  end  of  all  things,  for  they  had 
not  eaten  for  twelve  hours  now. 

The  sun-rays  danced,  for  a  breeze  had  sprung  up,  and 
they  could  hear  it  passing  free  and  happily  in  the  leaves 
overhead. 

Berselius  cast  himself  down  by  a  huge  tree  and  leaned 
his  head  against  the  bark.  Adams  stood  for  a  moment 
with  his  hand  upon  the  tree-bole.  He  knew  that  when 
he  had  cast  himself  down  he  would  never  rise  again. 


THE  RIVER  OF  GOLD  251 

It  was  the  full  stop  which  would  bring  the  story  of  his  life 
to  a  close. 

He  was  standing  like  this  when,  borne  on  the  breeze 
above  the  tree-tops,  came  a  sound,  stroke  after  stroke, 
sonorous  and  clear.  The  bell  of  a  steamboat! 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  Congo  telling  of  Life,  Hope, 
Relief. 

Berselius  did  not  hear  it.  Sunk  in  a  profound  stupor, 
he  would  not  even  raise  his  head. 

Adams  seized  his  companion  in  his  arms  and  came 
facing  the  direction  of  the  breeze.  He  walked  like  a 
man  in  his  sleep,  threading  the  maze  of  the  trees  on,  on, 
on,  till  before  him  the  day  broke  in  one  tremendous  splash 
of  light,  and  the  humble  frame-roof  of  M'Bina  seemed 
to  him  the  roofs  of  some  great  city,  beyond  which  the 
river  flowed  in  sheets  of  burnished  gold. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE   SUBSTITUTE 

DISTRICT  COMMISSIONER  DE  WIART,  chief 
at  M'Bina,  was  a  big  man  with  a  blond  beard 
and  a  good-natured  face.     He  worked  the  post 
at  M'Bina  with  the  assistance  of  a  subordinate  named 
Van  Laer. 

De  Wiart  was  a  man  eminently  fitted  for  his  post.  He 
had  a  genius  for  organization  and  overseeing.  He 
would  not  have  been  worth  a  centime  away  up-country, 
for  his  heart  was  far  too  good  to  allow  him  to  personally 
supervise  the  working  of  the  niggers,  but  at  M'Bina  he 
was  worth  a  good  deal  to  the  Government  that  em- 
ployed him. 

This  man  who  would  not  hurt  a  fly  —  this  man  who 
would  have  made  an  excellent  father  of  a  family  - 
was  terrible  to  his  subordinates  when  he  took  a  pen  in  his 
hand.  He  knew  the  mechanism  of  every  Chef  de  Poste 
in  his  district,  and  the  sort  of  letter  that  would  rouse  him 
up,  stimulate  him  to  renewed  action,  and  the  slaves  under 
him  to  renewed  work. 

Van  Laer  was  of  quite  a  different  type.  Van  Laer 
had  the  appearance  of  a  famished  hound  held  back  by  a 
leash.  He  was  tall  and  thin.  He  had  been  a  school- 

252 


THE  SUBSTITUTE  253 

master  dismissed  from  his  school  for  a  grave  offence; 
he  had  been  a  billiard-marker;  he  had  walked  the  streets 
of  Brussels  in  a  frock-coat  and  tall  hat,  a  "  guide  "  on  the 
lookout  for  young  foreigners  who  wished  to  enjoy  the 
more  dubious  pleasures  of  the  city.  He  had  been  many 
things,  till,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  he  became  a  servant 
of  the  crown. 

The  pale  blue  eyes  of  Van  Laer  held  in  them  a  shallow- 
ness  and  murderous  cruelty,  an  expression  of  negation 
and  coldness  combined  with  mind  such  as  one  finds 
nowhere  in  the  animal  kingdom,  save  that  branch  of  it 
which  prides  itself  on  its  likeness  to  God.  His  thumbs 
were  cruelly  shaped  and  enormous.  A  man  may  dis- 
guise his  soul,  he  may  disguise  his  mind,  he  may  disguise 
his  face,  but  he  cannot  disguise  his  thumbs  unless  he 
wears  gloves. 

No  one  wears  gloves  on  the  Congo,  so  Van  Laer's 
thumbs  were  openly  displayed. 

He  had  been  six  months  now  at  M'Bina  and  he  was 
sick  of  the  place,  accounts  were  of  no  interest  to  him. 
He  was  a  man  of  action,  and  he  wanted  to  be  doing.  He 
could  make  money  up  there  in  the  forest  at  the  heart  of 
things;  here,  almost  in  touch  with  civilization,  he  was 
wasting  his  time.  And  he  wanted  money.  The  bonus- 
ache  had  seized  him  badly.  When  he  saw  the  great  tusks 
of  green  ivory  in  their  jackets  of  matting,  when  he  saw 
the  bales  of  copal  leafed  round  with  aromatic  unknown 
leaves,  and  speaking  fervently  of  the  wealth  of  the  tropics 
and  the  riches  of  the  primeval  forests,  when  he  saw  the 
tons  of  rubber  and  remembered  that  this  stuff,  which 


254  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

in  the  baskets  of  the  native  collectors  looks  like  fried 
potato  chips,  in  Europe  becomes,  by  the  alchemy  of  trade, 
minted  gold,  a  great  hunger  rilled  his  hungry  soul. 

At  M'Bina  great  riches  were  eternally  flowing  in  and 
flowing  out.  Wealth  in  its  original  wrappings  piled  itself 
on  the  wharf  in  romantical  packets  and  bales,  piled  itself 
on  board  steamers,  floated  away  down  the  golden  river, 
and  was  replaced  by  more  wealth  flowing  in  from  the 
inexhaustible  forests. 

The  sight  of  all  this  filled  Van  Laer  with  an  actual 
physical  hunger.  He  could  have  eaten  that  stuff  that 
was  wealth  itself.  He  could  have  devoured  those  tusks. 
He  was  Gargantua  as  far  as  his  appetite  was  concerned, 
and  for  the  rest  he  was  only  Van  Laer  driving  a  quill  in 
the  office  of  De  Wiart. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  was  here  on  probation;  that 
the  good-natured  and  seemingly  lazy  de  Wiart  was  study- 
ing him  and  finding  him  satisfactory,  that  very  soon  his 
desires  would  be  fulfilled,  and  that  he  would  be  let  loose 
like  a  beast  on  the  land  of  his  longing,  a  living  whip,  an 
animated  thumb-screw,  a  knife  with  a  brain  in  its  haft. 

When  the  soldiers  had  lost  Berselius  and  Adams,  they 
struck  at  once  for  M'Bina,  reaching  it  in  a  day's  march. 

Here  they  told  their  tale. 

Chef  de  Poste  Meeus  was  dead.  They  had  escorted  a 
sick  white  man  and  a  big  white  man  toward  M'Bina. 
One  night  three  leopards  had  prowled  round  the  camp 
and  the  soldiers  had  gone  in  pursuit  of  them. 

The  leopards  escaped,  but  the  soldiers  could  not  find 
the  white  men  again. 


THE  SUBSTITUTE  255 

De  Wiart  listened  to  this  very  fishy  tale  without  believ- 
ing a  word  of  it,  except  in  so  far  as  it  related  to  Meeus. 

"  Where  did  you  lose  the  white  men  ?  "  asked  de  Wiart. 

The  soldiers  did  not  know.  One  does  not  know  where 
one  loses  a  thing;  if  one  did,  then  the  thing  would  not 
be  lost. 

"  Just  so,"  said  De  Wiart,  agreeing  to  this  very  evident 
axiom,  and  more  than  ever  convinced  that  the  story  was  a 
lie.  Meeus  was  dead  and  the  men  had  come  to  report. 
They  had  delayed  on  the  road  to  hold  some  jamboree  of 
their  own,  and  this  lie  about  the  white  men  was  to  account 
for  their  delay. 

"Did  anyone  else  come  with  you  as  well  as  the  white 
men?"  asked  De  Wiart. 

"Yes,  there  was  a  porter,  a  Yandjali  man.  He  had 
run  away." 

De  Wiart  pulled  his  blond  beard  meditatively,  and 
looked  at  the  river. 

From  the  office  where  he  was  sitting  the  river,  great 
with  the  rains  and  lit  by  the  sun  which  had  broken  through 
the  clouds,  looked  like  a  moving  flood  of  gold.  One 
might  have  fancied  that  all  the  wealth  of  the  elephant 
country,  all  the  teeming  riches  of  the  forest,  flowing  by  a 
thousand  streams  and  disdaining  to  wait  for  the  alchemy 
of  trade,  had  joined  in  one  Pactolian  flood  flowing  toward 
Leopoldsville  and  the  sea. 

De  Wiart  was  not  thinking  this.  He  dismissed  the 
soldiers  and  told  them  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to 
return  to  M'Bassa  on  the  morrow. 

That  evening  he  called  Van  Laer  into  the  office. 


256  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"  Chej  de  Poste  Meeus  of  Fort  M'Bassa  is  dead,"  said 
De  Wiart;  "you  will  go  there  and  take  command.  You 
will  start  to-morrow." 

Van  Laer  flushed. 

"  It  is  a  difficult  post,"  said  De  Wiart,  "  wild  country, 
and  the  natives  are  the  laziest  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
of  the  state.  The  man  before  Meeus  did  much  harm; 
he  had  no  power  or  control,  he  was  a  weak  man, 
and  the  people  frankly  laughed  at  him.  Actually 
rubber  came  in  here  one-third  rubbish,  the  people  were 
half  their  time  in  revolt,  they  cut  the  vines  in  two  districts. 
I  have  a  report  of  his  saying,  *  There  is  no  ivory  to  be 
got.  The  herds  are  very  scarce,  and  the  people  say  they 
cannot  make  elephants/  Fancy  writing  nigger  talk  like 
that  in  a  report.  I  replied  in  the  same  tone.  I  said, 
'Tell  the  people  they  must  make  them:  and  make  them 
in  a  hurry.  Tell  them  that  they  need  not  trouble  to  make 
whole  elephants,  just  the  tusks  will  do  —  eighty-pound 
tusks,  a  hundred-pound  if  possible.5  But  sarcasm  was 
quite  thrown  away  on  him.  He  listened  to  the  natives. 
Once  a  man  does  that  he  is  lost,  for  they  lose  all  respect 
for  him.  They  are  just  like  children,  these  people;  once 
let  children  get  in  the  habit  of  making  excuses  and  you 
lose  control. 

"Meeus  was  a  stronger  man,  but  he  left  much  to  be 
desired.  He  had  too  much  whalebone  in  his  composition, 
not  enough  steel,  but  he  was  improving. 

"You  will  find  yourself  at  first  in  a  difficult  position. 
It  always  is  so  when  a  Chef  de  Poste  dies  suddenly  and 
even  a  few  days  elapse  before  he  is  replaced.  The 


THE  SUBSTITUTE  257 

people  get  out  of  hand,  thinking  the  white  man  is  gone 
for  ever.  However,  you  will  find  yourself  all  right  in  a 
week  or  so,  if  you  are  firm." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Van  Laer.  "I  have  no  doubt 
at  all  that  I  will  be  able  to  bring  these  people  into  line. 
I  do  not  boast.  I  only  ask  you  to  keep  your  eye  on  the 
returns." 

Next  day  Van  Laer,  escorted  by  the  soldiers,  left 
M'Bina  to  take  up  the  station  at  Fort  M'Bassa  left  vacant 
by  the  death  of  Chef  de  Paste  Andreas  Meeus. 

Three  day  later  at  noon  De  Wiart,  drawn  from  his  house 
by  shouts  from  the  sentinels  on  duty  saw,  coming  toward 
him  in  the  blazing  sunshine,  a  great  man  who  stumbled 
and  seemed  half-blinded  by  the  sunlight,  and  who  was 
bearing  in  his  arms  another  man  who  seemed  dead. 

Both  were  filthy,  ragged,  torn  and  bleeding.  The 
man  erect  had,  tied  to  his  waistbelt  by  a  piece  of  liana,  a 
skull. 

Fit  emblem  of  the  forest  he  had  passed  through  and 
the  land  that  lay  behind  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

PARIS 

ONE  hot  day  in  June  Schaunard  was  seated  in  the 
little  office  just  behind  his  shop.  He  was 
examining  an  improved  telescopic  sight  which 
had  just  been  put  upon  the  market  by  an  opponent, 
criticizing  it  as  one  poet  criticizes  the  poem  of  another 
poet  —  that  is  to  say,  ferociously. 

To  him,  thus  meditating,  from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix 
suddenly  came  a  gush  of  sound  which  as  suddenly  ceased. 

The  shop  door  had  opened  and  closed  again,  and 
Schaunard  leaving  his  office  came  out  to  see  who  the 
visitor  might  be. 

He  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Adams.  He  knew 
him  by  his  size,  but  he  would  scarcely  have  recognized  him 
by  his  face,  so  brown,  so  thin  and  so  different  in  expression 
was  it  from  the  face  of  the  man  with  whom  he  had  parted 
but  a  few  months  ago. 

"Good  day,"  said  Adams.  "I  have  come  to  pay  you 
for  that  gun." 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  gun,"  said  Schaunard  with  a  little  laugh, 
"this  is  a  pleasant  surprise.  I  had  entered  it  amidst 
my  bad  debts.  Come  in,  monsieur,  come  into  my  office, 
it  is  cooler  there,  and  we  can  talk.  The  gun,  ah,  yes.  I 

258 


PARIS  259 

had  entered  that  transaction  in  Ledger  D.  Come  in, 
come  in.  There,  take  that  armchair,  I  keep  it  for  visitors. 
Well,  and  how  did  the  expedition  go  off?" 

"Badly,"  said  Adams.  "We  are  only  back  a  week. 
You  remember  what  you  said  to  me  when  we  parted? 
You  said,  'Don't  go.'  I  wish  I  had  taken  your  advice." 

"Why,  since  you  are  back  sound  and  whole,  it  seems 
to  me  you  have  not  done  so  badly  —  but  perhaps  you 
have  got  malaria?" 

The  old  man's  sharp  eyes  were  investigating  the  face 
of  the  other.  Schaunard's  eyes  had  this  peculiarity,  that 
they  were  at  once  friendly  to  one  and  cruel,  they  matched 
the  eternal  little  laugh  which  was  ever  springing  to  his 
lips  —  the  laugh  of  the  eternal  mocker. 

Schaunard  made  observations  as  well  as  telescopic 
sights  and  wind-gauges  —  he  had  been  making  obser- 
vation for  sixty  years  —  he  took  almost  as  much  interest 
in  individual  human  beings  as  in  rifles,  and  much  more 
interest  in  Humanity  than  in  God. 

He  was  afflicted  with  the  malady  of  the  nineteenth  and 
twentieth  centuries  —  he  did  not  believe  in  God,  only 
instead  of  hiding  his  disease  under  a  cloak  of  mechanical 
religion,  or  temporizing  with  it,  he  frankly  declared  him- 
self to  be  what  he  was,  an  atheist. 

This  fact  did  not  interfere  with  his  trade  —  a  godly 
gunmaker  gets  no  more  custom  than  an  atheistical  one; 
besides,  Schaunard  did  not  obtrude  his  religious  opinions 
after  the  fashion  of  his  class,  he  was  a  good  deal  of  a 
gentleman,  and  he  was  accustomed  to  converse  familiarly 
with  emperors  and  kings. 


260  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"No,  it  is  not  malaria,"  replied  Adams,  following 
the  old  man  who  was  leading  the  way  into  the  office. 
"I  never  felt  better  in  my  life.  It  is  just  the  Congo. 
The  place  leaves  an  impression  on  one's  mind,  M.  Schau- 
nard,  a  flavour  that  is  not  good." 

He  took  the  armchair  which  Schaunard  kept  for 
visitors.  He  was  only  a  week  back  —  all  he  had  seen 
out  there  was  fresh  to  him  and  very  vivid,  but  he  felt  in 
Schaunard  an  antagonistic  spirit,  and  he  did  not  care  to 
go  deeper  into  his  experiences. 

Schaunard  took  down  that  grim  joke,  Ledger  D,  placed 
it  on  the  table  and  opened  it,  but  without  turning  the 
leaves. 

"And  how  is  Monsieur  le  Capitaine?"  asked  he. 

"He  has  been  very  ill,  but  he  is  much  better.  I  am 
staying  with  him  in  the  Avenue  Malakoff  as  his  medical 
attendant.  We  only  arrived  at  Marseilles  a  week  ago." 

"And  Madame  Berselius,  how  is  she?" 

"Madame  Berselius  is  at  Trouville." 

"The  best  place  this  weather.  Ma  foi,  you  must 
find  it  warm  here  even  after  Africa  —  well,  tell  me  how 
you  found  the  gun  to  answer." 

Adams  laughed.  "The  gun  went  off  —  in  the  hands 
of  a  savage.  All  your  beautiful  guns,  Monsieur  Schau- 
nard, are  now  matchwood  and  old  iron,  tents,  everything 
went^  smashed  to  pieces,  pounded  to  pulp  by  elephants." 

He  told  of  the  great  herd  they  had  pursued  and  how 
in  the  dark  it  had  charged  the  camp.  He  told  of  how  in 
the  night,  listening  by  the  camp  fire,  he  had  heard  the 
mysterious  boom  of  its  coming,  and  of  the  marvellous 


PARIS  261 

sight  he  had  watched  when  Berselius,  failing  in  his  attempt 
to  waken  the  Zappo  Zap,  had  fronted  the  oncoming 
army  of  destruction. 

Schaunard's  eyes  lit  up  as  he  listened. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "that  is  a  man!" 

The  remark  brought  Adams  to  a  halt. 

He  had  become  strangely  bound  up  in  Berselius;  he 
had  developed  an  affection  for  this  man  almost  brotherly, 
and  Schaunard's  remark  hit  him  and  made  him  wince. 
For  Schaunard  employed  the  present  tense. 

"Yes,"  said  Adams  at  last,  "it  was  very  grand."  Then 
he  went  on  to  tell  of  Berselius's  accident,  but  he  said 
nothing  of  his  brain  injury,  for  a  physician  does  not  speak 
of  his  patient's  condition  to  strangers,  except  in  the 
vaguest  and  most  general  terms. 

"And  how  did  you  like  the  Belgians?"  asked  the  old 
man,  when  Adams  had  finished. 

"The  Belgians!"  Adams,  suddenly  taken  off  his 
guard,  exploded;  he  had  said  nothing  as  yet  about  the 
Congo  to  anyone.  He  could  not  help  himself  now;  the 
horrors  rushed  to  his  mouth  and  escaped  —  the  cry  of 
the  great  mournful  country  —  the  cry  that  he  had  brought 
to  Europe  with  him  in  his  heart,  found  vent. 

Schaunard  sat  amazed,  not  at  the  infamies  pouring 
from  Adams's  mouth,  for  he  was  well  acquainted  with 
them,  but  at  the  man's  vehemence  and  energy. 

"I  have  come  to  Europe  to  expose  him,"  finished 
Adams. 

"Expose  who?" 

"Leopold,  King  of  the  Belgians," 


262  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"But,  my  dear  Monsieur  Adams,  you  have  come  to 
waste  your  time;  he  is  already  exposed.  Expose  Leo- 
pold, King  of  the  Belgians!  Say  at  once  that  you  are 
going  to  expose  the  sun.  He  does  n't  care.  He  exposes 
himself.  His  public  and  his  private  life  are  common 
property." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  everyone  knows  what  I  know  ?  " 

"Precisely,  and  perhaps  even  more,  but  everyone  has 
not  seen  what  you  have  seen,  and  that 's  all  the  difference." 

"How  so?" 

"In  this  way,  monsieur;  let  us  suppose  that  you  have 
just  seen  a  child  run  over  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  You 
come  in  here  and  tell  me  of  it;  the  horror  of  it  is  in  your 
mind,  but  you  cannot  convey  that  horror  to  me,  simply 
because  I  have  not  seen  what  you  have  seen.  Still,  you 
can  convey  a  part  of  it,  for  I  know  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  it 
is  close  to  me,  outside  my  door,  and  I  know  French 
children. 

"You  come  to  me  and  tell  me  of  hideous  sights  you 
have  seen  in  Africa.  That  does  not  move  me  a  tenth 
so  much,  for  Africa  is  very  far  away  —  it  is,  in  fact,  for 
me  a  geographical  expression;  the  people  are  niggers  I 
have  never  seen,  dwelling  in  a  province  I  have  never 
heard  of.  You  come  to  seek  sympathy  for  this  people 
amongst  the  French  public?  Well,  I  tell  you  frankly 
you  are  like  a  man  searching  in  a  dark  room  for  a  black 
hat  that  is  not  there." 

"Nevertheless  I  shall  search." 

"As  monsieur  wills,  only  don't  knock  yourself  against 
the  chairs  and  tables.  Ah,  monsieur,  monsieur,  you 


PARIS 

are  young  and  a  medical  man.  Remain  so,  and  don't 
lose  your  years  and  your  prospects  fighting  the  impossible. 
Now  listen  to  me,  for  it  is  old  Schaunard  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix  who  is  speaking  to  you.  The  man  you  would 
expose,  as  you  term  it,  is  a  king  to  begin  with;  to  go  on 
with,  he  is  far  and  away  the  cleverest  king  in  Christendom. 
That  man  has  brains  enough  to  run  what  you  in  America 
call  a  department  store.  Every  little  detail  of  his  estate 
out  there,  even  to  the  cap  guns  and  rifles  of  the  troops,  he 
looks  after  himself;  that 's  why  it  pays.  It  is  a  bad- 
smelling  business,  but  it  does  n't  poison  the  nose  of  Europe, 
because  it  is  so  far  away.  Still,  smells  are  brought  over 
in  samples  by  missionaries  and  men  like  you,  and  people 
say  *  Faugh! '  Do  you  think  he  did  not  take  that  into  his 
consideration  when  he  planned  the  affair  and  laid  down 
the  factory  ?  If  you  think  so,  you  would  be  vastly  mis- 
taken. He  has  agents  everywhere  —  I  have  met  them, 
apologists  everywhere  —  in  the  Press,  in  Society,  in  the 
Church.  The  Roman  Catholic  Church  is  entirely  his; 
he  is  triple-ringed  with  politicians,  priests,  publicists, 
and  financiers,  all  holding  their  noses  to  keep  out  the 
stench  and  all  singing  the  Laus  Leopold  at  the  top  of 
their  voices. 

"Ah!  you  don't  know  Europe.  I  do,  from  the  Ballplatz 
to  Willhelmstrasse,  from  the  Winter  Palace  to  the  Elysee, 
my  trade  has  brought  me  everywhere,  and  if  you  could 
see  with  my  eyes,  you  would  see  the  great,  smooth  plain 
of  ice  you  hope  to  warm  with  your  poor  breath  in  the  name 
of  Humanity." 

"At  all  events  I  shall  try,"  replied  Adams,  rising  to  go. 


264  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"Well,  try,  but  don't  get  frozen  in  making  the  trial 

Oh,  the  gun  —  well,  look  here  —  you  are  starting  on 
another  hunting  expedition,  it  seems  to  me,  a  more  dan- 
gerous one,  too,  than  the  last,  for  there  is  no  forest  where 
one  loses  oneself  more  fatally  than  the  forest  of  social 
reform  —  pay  me  when  you  come  back." 

"Very  well/'  said  Adams,  laughing. 

"  Only  if  you  are  successful  though." 

"Very  well." 

"And,  see  here,  in  any  event  come  and  tell  me  the 
result.  Bon  jour,  monsieur,  and  a  word  in  your  ear 

The  old  man  was  opening  the  shop  door. 

"Yes?" 

"Don't  go." 

Schaunard  closed  his  door  and  retired  to  his  office 
to  chuckle  over  his  joke,  and  Adams  walked  off  down  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix. 

Paris  was  wearing  her  summer  dress;  it  was  the  end 
of  the  season,  and  the  streets  were  thronged  with  foreign- 
ers —  the  Moor  from  Morocco,  in  his  white  burnous, 
elbowed  the  Slav  from  Moscow;  the  Eiffel  Tower  had 
become  a  veritable  Tower  of  Babel;  the  theatres  were 
packed,  the  cafes  crowded.  Austrian,  Russian,  English, 
and  American  gold  was  pouring  into  the  city  —  pour- 
ing in  ceaselessly  from  the  four  corners  of  the  world  and 
by  every  great  express  disgorging  at  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
the  Gare  de  1'Est,  and  the  Gare  de  Lyons. 

To  Adams,  fresh  from  the  wilderness  and  the  forest, 
fresh  from  those  great,  silent,  sunlit  plains  of  the  elephant 
country  and  the  tremendous  cavern  of  the  jungle,  the 


PARIS  265 

city  around  him  and  the  sights  affected  him  with  vivid- 
ness and  force. 

Here,  in  the  centre  of  the  greatest  civilization  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen,  he  stood  fresh  from  that  primeval 
land. 

He  had  seen  civilization  with  her  mask  off,  her  hair 
in  disorder,  her  foot  on  the  body  of  a  naked  slave  and 
the  haft  of  a  blood-stained  knife  between  her  teeth,  he 
was  watching  her  now  with  her  mask  on,  her  hair  in  pow- 
der, Caruso  singing  to  her;  sitting  amidst  her  court  of 
poets,  philosophers,  churchmen,  placemen,  politicians, 
and  financiers. 

It  was  a  strange  experience. 

He  took  his  way  down  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  then 
to  the  Avenue  Malakoff,  and  as  he  walked  the  face  of 
the  philosophic  Schaunard  faded  from  his  mind  and  was 
replaced  by  the  vision  of  Maxine  Berselius.  Opposites 
in  the  world  of  thought  often  awaken  images  one  of 
the  other,  just  because  of  the  fact  that  they  are  opposites. 

Maxine  was  not  at  Trouville.  She  had  met  them  at 
the  railway  station  on  the  day  of  their  arrival. 

La  Joconde  had  been  cabled  for  from  Leopoldsville, 
and  the  great  yacht  had  brought  them  to  Marseilles. 
Nothing  had  been  cabled  as  to  Berselius's  accident  or 
illness,  and  Madame  Berselius  had  departed  for  Trouville, 
quite  unconscious  of  anything  having  happened  to  her 
husband. 

Maxine  was  left  to  discover  for  herself  the  change  in 
her  father.  She  had  done  so  at  the  very  first  sight  of  him, 
but  as  yet  she  had  said  no  word. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

DREAMS 

"IT  "Tf  THEN  Adams  arrived  at  the  Avenue  Malakoff 

V/  y        he  found   Berselius  in  the  library.     He  was 

seated  in  a  big  armchair,  and  M.  Pinchon, 

his   secretary,   a  man   dry-looking  as  an   account-book, 

bald,  and  wearing  spectacles,  was  just  leaving  the  room 

with  some  shorthand  notes  of  business  letters  to  be  typed. 

Berselius  was  much  changed;  his  hair  was  quite  gray, 
his  eyes,  once  so  calm,  forceful,  and  intrinsically  brilliant, 
had  lost  their  lustre,  his  face  wore  the  expression  of  a 
confirmed  invalid. 

Great  discontent  was  the  predominant  feature  of  this 
expression. 

It  was  only  within  the  last  few  days  that  this  had 
appeared.  On  recovering  from  the  hardships  of  the 
forest  and  on  the  voyage  home,  though  weak  enough, 
he  had  been  serene,  mild,  amiable  and  rather  listless, 
but  during  the  last  few  days  something  was  visibly  troub- 
ling him. 

He  had  "gone  off,"  to  use  an  expressive  phrase  some- 
times employed  by  physicians. 

A  strange  thing  had  happened  to  Berselius.  Ever 
since  the  recovery  of  his  memory  his  new  self  had  con- 


DREAMS  267 

templated  the  past  from  the  heights  of  new  birth,  calmly 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  this  past  belonged  to  a  man 
who  was  dead.  The  more  he  examined  this  past  the 
more  he  loathed  the  man  to  whom  it  had  belonged,  but 
the  difference  between  that  man  and  himself  was  so  pro- 
found that  he  felt,  rightly,  that  he  was  not  He. 

Three  mornings  ago  Berselius,  who  rarely  dreamt, 
had  awakened  from  a  long  night  of  hunting  in  Dream- 
land. In  Dreamland  he  had  cast  off  his  new  person- 
ality and  became  his  old  self,  and  then,  in  his  hunting 
shirt  and  with  a  cordite  rifle  in  his  hand,  accompanied 
by  the  Zappo  Zap,  he  had  tracked  elephant  herds  across 
illimitable  plains. 

He  had  awakened  to  his  new  self  again  with  the  full 
recognition  in  his  mind  that  only  a  few  moments  ago  he 
had  been  thinking  with  that  other  man's  brain,  acting 
under  his  passions,  living  his  life. 

The  Berselius  of  Dreamland  had  not  the  remotest 
connection  with,  or  knowledge  of,  the  Berselius  of  real 
life.  Yet  the  Berselius  of  real  life  was  very  intimately 
connected  with  the  Berselius  of  Dreamland,  knew  all  his 
actions,  knew  all  his  sensations,  and  remembered  them 
to  the  minutest  detail. 

The  next  night  he  did  not  dream  at  all  —  not  so  on 
the  third  night,  when  the  scene  of  horror  by  the  Silent 
Pools  was  reenacted,  himself  in  the  original  role.  The 
incidents  were  not  quite  the  same,  for  scenes  from  real 
life  are  scarcely  ever  reproduced  on  the  stage  of  Dream- 
land in  their  entirety;  but  they  were  ghastly  enough  in 
all  conscience,  and  Berselius,  awake  and  wiping  the 


268  THE  POOLS  OP  SILENCE 

sweat  from  his  brow,  saw  them  clearly  before  him  and 
remembered  the  callousness  with  which  he  had  watched 
them  but  a  few  moments  ago. 

No  man  can  command  his  dreams;  the  dreaming  man 
lives  in  a  world  beyond  law,  and  it  came  as  a  shock  to 
Berselius  that  his  old  self  should  be  alive  in  him  like  this, 
powerful,  active,  and  beyond  rebuke. 

Physically,  he  was  a  wreck  of  his  old  self,  but  that  was 
nothing  to  the  fact  which  was  now  borne  in  on  him  — 
the  fact  that  this  new  mentality  was  but  a  thin  shell 
covering  the  old,  as  the  thin  shell  of  earth,  with  its  flowers 
and  pleasant  landscapes,  covers  the  burning  hell  which 
is  the  earth's  core. 

The  thing  was  perfectly  natural.  A  great  and  vivid 
personality,  and  forty  years  of  exuberant  and  self-willed 
life  had  at  a  stroke  been  checked  and  changed.  The 
crust  of  his  mind  had  cooled;  tempestuous  passions  had 
passed  from  the  surface,  giving  place  to  kindlier  emotions, 
but  the  furnace  was  there  beneath  the  flower  garden 
just  as  it  is  in  the  case  of  the  earth. 

Captain  Berselius  was  still  alive,  though  suppressed 
and  living  in  secrecy.  At  night,  touched  by  the  magic 
wand  of  sleep,  he  became  awake,  and  became  supreme 
master  of  the  tenement  in  the  cellars  of  which  he  was 
condemned  to  sleep  by  day. 

So  far  from  having  been  touched  by  death,  Captain 
Berselius  was  now  secure  from  death  or  change;  a  thing 
not  to  be  reasoned  with  or  altered  —  beyond  human 
control  —  yet  vividly  alive  as  the  fabled  monster  that 
inhabits  the  cellars  of  Glamis  Castle. 


DREAMS  269 

Between  the  dual  personalities  of  the  man  complete 
fission  had  taken  place,  a  terrible  accident  of  the  sort 
condemning  the  cast-off  personality  to  live  in  darkness 
beyond  the  voice  of  mind  or  amendment. 

"Well/*  said  Adams,  as  he  entered  the  room.  "How 
are  you  to-day?" 

"Oh,  about  the  same,  about  the  same.  If  I  could 
sleep  properly  I  would  mend,  but  my  sleep  is  broken." 

"I  must  give  you  something  to  alter  that." 

Berselius  laughed. 

"Drugs?" 

"Yes,  drugs.  We  doctors  cannot  always  command 
health,  but  we  can  command  sleep.  Do  you  feel  your- 
self able  to  talk  for  a  bit?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  feel  physically  well.  Sit  down,  you  will 
find  some  cigars  in  that  cabinet." 

Adams  lit  a  cigar  and  took  his  seat  in  an  armchair 
close  to  his  companion.  All  differences  of  rank  and 
wealth  were  sunk  between  these  two  men  who  had  gone 
through  so  much  together.  On  their  return,  when 
Berselius  had  desired  Adams  to  remain  as  his  medical 
attendant,  he  had  delegated  M.  Pinchon  as  intermediary 
to  deal  with  Adams  as  to  the  financial  side  of  the 
question. 

Adams  received  a  large  salary  paid  monthly  in  advance 
by  the  secretary.  Berselius  did  not  have  any  hand  in 
the  matter,  thus  the  feeling  of  employer  and  employed 
was  reduced  to  vanishing  point  and  the  position  rendered 
more  equal. 

"You  know,"  said  Adams,  "I  have  always  been  glad 


270  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

to  do  anything  I  can  for  you,  and  I  always  shall  be,  but 
since  I  have  come  back  to  Paris  I  have  been  filled  with 
unrest.  You  complain  of  sleeplessness  —  well,  that  is  my 
disease." 

"Yes?" 

"It 's  that  place  over  there;  it  has  got  into  my  blood. 
I  declare  to  God  that  I  am  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
sentimentalize,  but  that  horror  is  killing  me,  and  I  must 
act  —  I  must  do  something  —  even  if  I  have  to  go  into 
the  middle  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  shout  it  aloud. 
I  shall  shout  it  aloud.  I  'm  not  made  so  that  I  can 
stand  seeing  a  thing  like  that  in  silence." 

Berselius  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet;  he 
seemed  abstracted  and  scarcely  listening.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  Adams  was  acquainted  with  the 
affair  at  the  Silent  Pools,  but  the  subject  had  never  been 
mentioned  between  them,  nor  was  it  now. 

"That  missionary  I  met  on  the  return  home  at  Leopolds- 
ville,"  went  on  Adams,  "he  was  a  Baptist,  a  man,  not  a 
religion-machine.  He  gave  me  details  from  years  of 
experience  that  turned  my  heart  in  me.  With  my  own 
eyes  I  saw  enough " 

Berselius  held  up  his  hand. 

"Let  us  not  speak  of  what  we  know,"  said  he.  "The 
thing  is  there  —  has  been  there  for  years  —  can  you 
destroy  the  past  ?  " 

"No;  but  one  can  improve  the  future."  Adams 
got  up  and  paced  the  floor.  "Now,  now  as  I  am  talking  to 
you,  that  villainy  is  going  on;  it  is  like  knowing  that  a 
murder  is  slowly  being  committed  in  the  next  house 


DREAMS  271 

and  that  one  has  no  power  to  interfere.  When  I  look  at 
the  streets  full  of  people  amusing  themselves;  when  I 
see  the  cafes  crammed,  and  the  rich  driving  in  their  car- 
riages; the  churches  filled  with  worshippers  worship- 
ping a  God  who  serenely  sits  in  heaven  without  stretch- 
ing a  hand  to  help  His  poor,  benighted  creatures  — 
when  I  see  all  this  and  contrast  it  with  what  I  have  seen, 
I  could  worship  that!" 

He  stopped,  and  pointed  to  the  great  gorilla  shot  years 
ago  in  German  West  Africa  by  Berselius.  "That  was 
a  being  at  least  sincere.  Whatever  brutalities  he  com- 
mitted in  his  life,  he  did  not  talk  sentiment  and  religion 
and  humanitarianism  as  he  pulled  his  victims  to  pieces, 
and  he  did  not  pull  his  victims  to  pieces  for  the  sake  of 
gold.  He  was  an  honest  devil,  a  far  higher  thing  than 
a  dishonest  man." 

Again  Berselius  held  up  his  hand. 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"  Do  ?  I  'd  break  that  infernal  machine  which  calls 
itself  a  State,  and  I  'd  guillotine  the  ruffian  that  invented 
it.  I  cannot  do  that,  but  I  can  at  least  protest." 

Berselius,  who  had  helped  to  make  the  machine,  and 
who  knew  better  than  most  men  its  strength,  shook 
his  head  sadly. 

"Do  what  you  will,"  said  he.  "If  you  need  money 
my  funds  are  at  your  disposal,  but  you  cannot  destroy 
the  past." 

Adams,  who  knew  nothing  of  Berselius's  dream- 
obsession,  could  not  understand  the  full  meaning  of 
these  words. 


272  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

But  he  had  received  permission  to  act,  and  the  prom- 
ise of  that  financial  support  without  which  individual 
action  would  be  of  no  avail. 

He  determined  to  act;  he  determined  to  spare  neither 
Berselius's  money  nor  his  own  time. 

But  the  determination  of  man  is  limited  by  circum- 
stance, and  circumstance  was  at  that  moment  preparing 
and  rehearsing  the  last  act  of  the  drama  of  Berselius. 


CHAPTER  XXXVH 

BERSELIUS  BEHOLDS  HIS  OTHER  SELF 

ON  THE  morning  after  Berselius's  conversation 
with  Adams,  Berselius  left  the  Avenue  Malakoff, 
taking  his  way  to  the  Avenue  des  Champs 
Elysees  on  foot. 

The  change  in  the  man  was  apparent  even  in  his 
walk.  In  the  old  days  he  was  rapid  in  his  movements, 
erect  of  head,  keen  of  eye.  The  weight  of  fifteen  years 
seemed  to  have  suddenly  fallen  on  his  shoulders,  bow- 
ing them  and  slowing  his  step.  He  was  in  reality 
carrying  the  most  terrible  burden  that  a  man  can 
carry  —  himself. 

A  self  that  was  dead,  yet  with  which  he  had  to  live. 
A  past  which  broke  continually  up  through  his  dreams. 

He  was  filled  with  profound  unrest,  irritation  and  revolt; 
everything  connected  with  that  other  one,  even  the  money 
he  had  made  and  the  house  he  had  built  for  himself  and  the 
pursuits  he  had  followed,  increased  this  irritation  and 
revolt.  He  had  already  formed  plans  for  taking  a  new 
house  in  Paris,  but  to-day,  as  he  walked  along  the  streets, 
he  recognized  that  Paris  itself  was  a  house,  every  corner  of 
which  belonged  to  that  other  one's  past. 

In  the  Avenue  Champs  Elysees,  he  hailed  a  fiacre 

273 


o 
274  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

and  drove  to  the  house  of  his  lawyer,  M.  Cambon,  which 
was  situated  in  the  Rue  d'Artiles. 

Cambon  had  practically  retired  from  his  business,  which 
was  carried  on  now  by  his  son.  But  for  a  few  old  arid 
powerful  clients,  such  as  Berselius,  he  still  acted  personally. 

He  was  at  home,  and  Berselius  was  shown  into  a  draw- 
ing room,  furnished  heavily  after  the  heart  of  the  prosper- 
ous French  bourgeois. 

He  had  not  to  wait  long  for  the  appearance  of  the 
lawyer,  a  fat,  pale-faced  gentleman,  wearing  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  tightly  buttoned  up  in  a  frock-coat,  the  button- 
hole of  which  was  adorned  with  the  red  rosette  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour. 

Cambon  had  known  Berselius  for  years.  The  two 
men  were  friends,  and  even  more,  for  Cambon  was  the 
depository  of  Berselius's  most  confidential  affairs. 

"Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  "you  have  returned.  I  saw 
a  notice  of  your  return  in  the  Echo  de  Paris,  and  indeed, 
this  very  day  I  had  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
on  you.  And  how  is  Madame  Berselius  ?" 

"She  is  at  Trouville." 

"I  had  it  in  my  mind  that  you  proposed  to  remain  away 
twelve  months." 

"Yes,  but  our  expedition  came  to  an  end." 

Berselius,  in  a  few  words,  told  how  the  camp  had 
been  broken  up,  without  referring,  however,  to  his  accident; 
and  the  fat  and  placid  Cambon  listened,  pleased  as  a  child 
with  the  tale.  He  had  never  seen  an  elephant  except  at 
the  Jardin  d'Acclimatation.  He  would  have  run  from  a 
milch-cow.  Terrible  in  the  law  courts,  in  life  he  was  the 


BERSELIUS  BEHOLDS  HIS  OTHER  SELF    275 

mildest  of  creatures,  and  the  tale  had  all  the  attraction 
that  the  strong  has  for  the  weak  and  the  ferocious  for  the 
mild. 

But  even  as  he  listened,  sitting  there  in  his  armchair, 
he  was  examining  his  visitor  with  minute  attention,  trying 
to  discover  some  clue  to  the  meaning  of  the  change  in  him. 

"And  now,"  said  Berselius,  when  he  had  finished,  "to 
business." 

He  had  several  matters  to  consult  the  lawyer  about, 
and  the  most  important  was  the  shifting  of  his  money 
from  the  securities  in  which  they  were  placed. 

Cambon,  who  was  a  large  holder  of  rubber  industries, 
grew  pale  beneath  his  natural  pallor  when  he  discovered 
that  Berselius  was  about  to  place  his  entire  fortune  else- 
where. 

Instantly  he  put  two  and  two  together.  Berselius's 
quick  return,  his  changed  appearance,  the  fact  that 
suddenly  and  at  one  sweep  he  was  selling  his  stock.  All 
these  pointed  to  one  fact  —  disaster. 

The  elephant  story  was  all  a  lie,  so  resolved  Cambon, 
and,  no  sooner  had  he  bowed  his  visitor  out,  than  he  rushed 
to  the  telephone,  rang  up  his  broker,  and  ordered  him  to 
sell  out  his  rubber  stock  at  any  price. 

Berselius,  when  he  left  the  lawyer's  house,  drove  to  his 
club.  The  selling  of  his  rubber  industry  shares  had  been 
prompted  by  no  feeling  of  compunction;  it  was  an  act 
entirely  dictated  by  the  profound  irritation  he  felt  against 
the  other  one  who  had  made  his  fortune  out  of  those  same 
rubber  industries. 

He  wished  to  break  every  bond  between  himself  and  the 


276  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

infernal  entity  that  dominated  him  by  night.  Surely  it 
was  enough  to  be  that  other  one  at  night,  without  being 
perpetually  haunted  by  that  other  one's  traces  by  day. 

In  the  Place  de  L'Opera,  his  fiacre  paused  in  a  crowd 
of  vehicles.  Berselius  heard  himself  hailed.  He  turned 
his  head.  In  a  barouche  drawn  up  beside  his  carriage, 
was  seated  a  young  and  pretty  woman.  It  was  Sophia 
Melmotte,  a  flame  from  his  past  life,  burning  now  for  a 
space  in  the  life  of  a  Russian  prince. 

"Ma  /or,"  said  Sophia,  as  her  carriage  pushed  up  till 
it  was  quite  level  with  Berselius.  "So  you  are  back  from 
—  where  was  it  you  went  to  ?  And  how  are  the  tigers  ? 
Why,  heavens,  how  you  are  changed !  How  gloomy  you 
look.  One  would  think  you  had  swallowed  a  hearse  and 
had  not  digested  the  trappings " 

To  all  of  which  Berselius  bowed. 

"  You  are  just  the  same  as  ever,"  said  he. 

The  woman  flushed  under  her  rouge,  for  there  was 
something  in  Berselius's  tone  that  made  the  simple  words  an 
insult.  Before  she  could  reply,  however,  the  block  in  the 
traffic  ceased,  and  as  the  carriage  drove  on  Berselius 
bowed  again  to  her  coldly,  and  as  though  she  were  a 
stranger  with  whom  he  had  spoken  for  a  moment,  and 
whom  he  had  never  seen  before. 

At  the  club  in  the  smoking  room,  where  he  went  for  an 
absinthe  before  luncheon,  he  met  Colonel  Tirard,  the  very 
man  who  had  presided  at  the  banquet  given  to  him  on  the 
day  of  his  leaving  for  Africa.  This  man,  who  had  been  his 
friend,  this  man,  in  whose  society  he  had  always  felt  pleas- 
ure, was  now  obnoxious  to  him.  And  after  a  while  the 


BERSELIUS  BEHOLDS  HIS  OTHER  SELF    277 

weird  fact  was  borne  in  on  the  mind  of  Berselius  that  Tirard 
was  not  talking  to  him.  Tirard  was  talking  to  the  man 
who  was  dead  —  the  other  Berselius.  The  new  rifle  for 
the  army,  which  filled  Tirard 's  conversation,  would  have 
been  an  interesting  subject  to  the  old  Berselius;  it  was 
absolutely  distasteful  to  the  new. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  quite  clearly  recognized 
that  all  the  friends,  pursuits,  and  interests  that  had  filled 
his  life  till  this,  were  useless  to  him  and  dead  as  the  cast- 
off  self  that  had  once  dominated  his  being.  Not  only 
useless  and  dead,  but  distasteful  in  a  high  degree.  He 
would  have  to  re-create  a  world  of  interests  for  himself 
out  of  new  media.  He  was  living  in  a  world  where  all  the 
fruit  and  foliage  and  crops  had  been  blighted  by 
some  wizard's  wand;  he  would  have  to  re-plant  it  over 
anew,  and  at  the  present  moment  he  did  not  know  where 
to  cast  about  him  for  a  single  seed. 

Yet  he  did  not  give  in  all  at  once.  Like  a  person  per- 
sisting in  some  disagreeable  medicine,  hoping  to  become 
accustomed  to  it,  he  continued  his  conversation  with 
Tirard. 

After  luncheon,  he  sat  down  to  a  game  of  ecarte  in  the 
card-room  with  an  old  acquaintance,  but  after  half  an 
hour's  play  he  left  the  table  on  the  plea  of  indisposition  and 
left  the  club,  taking  his  way  homeward  on  foot. 

Near  the  Madeleine  occurred  one  of  those  incidents 
which,  in  tragic  lives,  appear  less  incidents  than  occur- 
rences prepared  by  Fate,  as  though  she  would  say,  "  Look 
and  deny  me  if  you  dare." 

Toward   Berselius    was  approaching  a  victoria  drawn 


278  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

by  two  magnificent  horses,  and  in  the  victoria  lolled  a  man. 
An  old  man  with  a  gray  beard,  who  lolled  on  the  cushions 
of  the  carriage,  and  looked  about  him  with  the  languid 
indifference  of  a  king  and  the  arrogance  of  a  megalomaniac. 

It  was  Leopold,  King  of  the  Belgians. 

When  Berselius's  eyes  fell  upon  that  face,  when  he 
saw  before  him  that  man  whom  all  thinking  men  abhor, 
a  cold  hand  seemed  laid  upon  his  heart,  as  though  in  that 
person  he  beheld  the  dead  self  that  haunted  his  dreams 
by  night,  as  though  he  saw  in  the  flesh  Berselius,  the  mur- 
derer, who,  by  consent,  had  murdered  the  people  of  the 
Silent  Pools;  the  murderer,  by  consent,  who  had  crushed 
millions  of  wretched  creatures  to  death  for  the  sake  of 
gold;  the  villain  of  Europe,  who  had  spent  that  gold  in 
nameless  debauchery;  the  man  whose  crimes  ought  to 
have  been  expiated  on  the  scaffold,  and  whose  life  ought 
to  have  been  cut  short  by  the  executioner  of  justice,  many, 
many  years  ago. 

It  was  thus  at  one  stroke  that  Berselius  saw  his  other 
self,  the  self  that  haunted  him  in  his  dreams,  saw  it  clearly, 
and  in  the  light  of  day. 

The  terrible  old  man  in  the  carriage  passed  on  his  way 
and  Berselius  on  his. 

When  he  reached  home,  in  the  hall,  just  as  he  was  hand- 
ing his  hat  to  a  servant,  Maxine  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
library.  Her  beauty,  innocence,  and  sweetness  formed  a 
strange  vision  contrasted  with  that  other  vision  he  had  seen 
near  the  Madeleine.  Was  it  possible  that  God's  world 
could  hold  two  such  creatures,  and  that  God's  air  should 
give  them  breath?  For  a  week  or  ten  days  after  this, 


BERSELIUS  BEHOLDS  HIS  OTHER  SELF    279 

Berselius  remained  in  his  own  suite  of  apartments  without 
leaving  the  house. 

It  was  as  if  the  sight  of  Leopold,  so  triumphantly  alive, 
had  shown  him  fully  his  own  change  and  his  weakness 
had  demonstrated  to  him  clearly  that  he  was  but  the 
wraith  of  what  he  had  been. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

THE    REVOLT    OF    A    S!LAVE 

THE  day  after  that  on  which  Berselius  had  seen 
Leopold,  Madame  Berselius,  moved  by  one  of 
those  fits  of  caprice  common  to  women  of  her 
type,  came  back  suddenly  from  Trouville. 

She  knew  of  her  husband's  return,  but  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  injury  or  of  the  alteration  that  had  come  in 
him  until  Maxine,  who  met  her  at  the  station,  hinted 
at  the  fact.  Berselius  was  standing  at  the  window  of 
his  private  sitting  room  when  Madame  Berselius  was 
announced. 

He  turned  to  greet  her;  even  as  he  turned  she  per- 
ceived the  change.  This  was  not  the  man  who  had 
left  her  a  few  months  ago,  strong,  confident,  impassive ; 
the  man  who  had  been  her  master  and  before  whom  she 
had  shrunk  like  a  slave.  Intuition  told  her  that  the 
change  was  not  the  change  wrought  by  sickness — 
Berselius  was  not  ill,  he  was  gone,  leaving  another  man 
in  his  place.  They  conversed  for  some  time  on  indif- 
ferent matters,  and  then  Madame  Berselius  took  her 
departure  for  her  own  apartments. 

But  she  left  the  room  of  Berselius  a  changed  woman, 
just  as  he  had  returned  to  it  a  changed  man. 

280 


THE  REVOLT  OF  A  SLAVE  281 

The  slave  in  her  had  found  her  freedom.  Utterly 
without  the  capacity  for  love  and  without  honour,  with- 
out conscience  and  with  a  vague  superstition  to  serve 
for  religion,  Madame  Berselius  had,  up  to  this,  been 
held  in  her  place  by  the  fear  of  her  husband.  His  will 
up  to  this  had  been  her  law ;  she  had  moved  in  the  major 
affairs  of  life  under  his  direction,  and  even  in  the  minor 
affairs  of  life  everything  had  to  be  surrendered  at  his 
word. 

And  now  she  hated  him. 

She  had  never  hated  him  before,  she  had  admired  him ; 
indeed,  as  far  as  her  power  of  admiration  went,  his 
strength  had  appealed  to  her  as  only  strength  can 
appeal  to  a  woman  of  her  type ;  but  now  that  his  strength 
was  gone  hatred  of  him  rose  up  in  her  heart,  petty  yet 
powerful,  a  dwarf  passion  that  had  been  slumbering 
for  years. 

When  the  engine  seizes  the  engineer  in  its  wheels, 
when  the  slave  gets  power  over  his  master,  cruel  things 
happen,  and  they  were  to  happen  in  the  case  of  Berse- 
lius. 

Madame's  rooms  were  so  far  away  from  the  rooms  of 
her  husband  that  they  might  have  been  living  in  dif- 
ferent houses.  There  was  none  of  the  intimacy  of  mar- 
ried life  between  this  couple ;  they  met  formally  at  meal 
times,  and  it  was  at  dejeuner  on  the  morning  after  her 
return  that  she  showed  openly  before  Adams,  Maxine, 
and  the  servants  her  contempt  for  the  man  who  had  once 
held  her  in  subjection.  Without  a  rude  word,  simply 
by  her  manner,  her  tone,  and  her  indifference  to  him, 


282  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

she  humbled  to  the  dust  the  stricken  man  and  proclaimed 
the  full  measure  of  his  disaster. 

As  day  followed  day  the  dominance  of  the  woman 
and  the  subjection  of  the  man  became  more  marked. 
Madame  would,  if  the  spirit  took  her,  countermand  her 
husband's  orders ;  once,  with  absolute  rudeness,  she,  at 
table  and  before  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  who 
was  a  guest,  turned  to  ridicule  a  remark  which  Berselius 
had  let  escape.  The  flush  that  came  to  his  cheek  told 
Maxine  that  her  father's  sensibilities  were  not  dead — he 
was  dominated. 

Nothing  could  be  stranger  than  this  reduction  of  a 
man  from  greatness  to  insignifiance.  The  old  Berselius 
dying,  bound  in  chains,  would  have  mastered  this  woman 
with  one  glance  of  his  eye.  The  new  Berselius,  free, 
wealthy,  and  with  all  his  material  powers  at  command, 
was  yet  her  creature,  an  object  of  pity  to  his  daughter 
and  of  derision  to  his  servants. 

Eight  days  after  her  return  Madame  Berselius,  now 
free  and  her  own  mistress,  left  Paris  for  Vaux  on  a 
short  visit  to  some  friends,  little  dreaming  of  the  mo- 
mentous event  that  was  to  cause  her  return. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 


MAXINE 

ON  THE  night  of  the  day  upon  which  Berselius 
had  paid  his  visit  to  M.  Cambon,  Adams,  seated 
in  the  smoking  room  at  a  writing  table  before 
a  broad  sheet  of  white  paper  covered  with  words, 
suddenly  took  the  paper,  tore  it  up,  and  threw  the  pieces 
in  a  wastepaper-basket. 

He  had  been  trying  to  put  in  language  the  story  of 
the  Congo  as  it  had  been  revealed  to  him. 

It  was  all  there  in  his  mind  like  a  tremendous  dram- 
atic poem:  the  great  sunlit  spaces  of  the  elephant  coun- 
try watched  over  by  the  vultures,  the  eternal  and  illim- 
itable forests  old  as  Memnon,  young  as  Spring,  unwithered 
and  unbroken  by  the  suns  and  rains  and  storms  of  the 
ages ;  the  river  flooding  to  the  sea,  and  the  people  to  whom 
this  place  belonged,  and  the  story  of  their  misery  and 
despair. 

When  he  contrasted  what  he  had  written  with  what 
was  in  his  mind,  he  recognized  the  hopelessness  of  his 
attempt.  He  had  not  the  power  to  put  on  paper  more 
than  the  shadow  of  what  he  had  seen  and  of  what  he  knew. 

To  represent  that  people  under  the  heel  of  that  Fate 
was  a  task  for  an  JSschylus. 


284  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

Sitting  thus  before  the  picture  he  could  not  reproduce, 
there  rose  before  his  mind  another  picture  he  had  seen 
that  day.  It  was  a  large  photograph  of  the  Laocoon. 
He  had  seen  it  in  Brentano's  window,  and,  now,  with  the 
eye  of  memory,  he  was  looking  at  it  again. 

That  wonderful  work  of  art  washed  up  to  us  by  the 
ages,  that  epic  in  marble,  expressed  all  that  words  refused 
to  say:  the  father  and  the  children  in  the  toils  of  Fate; 
the  hand  upholding  for  a  moment  the  crushing  coil  of 
the  serpent,  the  face  raised  to  a  sky  devoid  of  God  or  pity; 
the  agony,  the  sweat  and  the  cruelty,  all  were  there;  and 
as  Adams  gazed,  the  python-like  lianas  of  the  forest 
became  alive  in  his  mind,  the  snake-like  rubber  vine 
twined  in  coils,  circling  about  and  crushing  a  nation  and 
its  children,  remote  from  help  and  from  God,  as  Laocoon 
and  his  sons. 

Ages  have  passed  since  the  sculptor  of  that  marble 
laid  down  his  chisel  and  gazed  at  his  completed  work. 
Little  dreamt  he  that  thousands  of  years  later  it  would 
stand  as  a  parable,  representing  civilization  in  the  form  of 
the  python  which  he  had  carved  with  such  loathing  yet 
such  loving  care. 

Adams,  in  the  grasp  of  this  startling  thought,  was 
recalled  from  reverie  by  a  sound  behind  him. 

Someone  had  entered  the  room.  It  was  Maxine 
Berselius. 

They  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other  since  his  return. 
Adams,  indeed,  had  purposely  avoided  her  as  much  as 
it  is  possible  for  one  person  to  avoid  another  when  both 
are  dwelling  in  the  same  house. 


MAXINE  285 

The  pride  of  manhood  warned  him  against  this  woman 
who  was  rich  and  the  daughter  of  the  man  from  whom 
he  received  a  salary. 

Maxine  knew  nothing  of  the  pride  of  manhood;  she 
only  knew  that  he  avoided  her. 

She  was  dressed  entirely  in  white  with  a  row  of  pearls 
for  her  only  ornament.  She  had  just  returned  from  some 
social  function,  and  Adams  as  he  rose  to  meet  her  noticed 
that  she  had  closed  the  door. 

"Dr.  Adams,"  said  the  girl,  "forgive  me  for  disturb- 
ing you  at  this  hour.  For  days  I  have  wished  to  speak 
to  you  about  my  father.  I  have  put  it  off,  but  I  feel  I 
must  speak  —  what  has  happened  to  him?" 

She  took  a  seat  in  an  armchair,  and  Adams  stood  before 
her  with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece  and  his  hands 
behind  him. 

The  big  man  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  He 
stood  there  like  a  statue,  looking  at  his  questioner  gravely 
and  contemplatively,  as  a  physician  looks  at  a  patient 
whose  case  is  not  quite  clear. 

Then  he  said,  "You  notice  a  change  in  your  father?" 

"No,"  said  Maxine,  "it  is  more  than  a  change.  He 
is  quite  different  —  he  is  another  man." 

"When  we  were  hunting  out  there,"  said  Adams, 
"Captain  Berselius  had  an  accident.  In  trying  to  rescue 
a  servant  he  was  caught  by  an  elephant  and  flung  some 
distance;  he  hurt  his  head,  and  when  he  recovered  con- 
sciousness his  memory  was  quite  gone.  It  slowly  returned 
He  paused,  for  it  was  impossible  to  give  details, 
then  he  went  on — "I  noticed,  myself,  as  the  memory 


286  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

was  returning,  that  he  seemed  changed;  when  he  had 
fully  recovered  his  memory,  the  fact  was  obvious.  He 
was,  as  you  say,  quite  different  —  in  fact,  just  as  you  see 
him  now." 

"But  can  an  injury  change  a  person  like  that?" 

"Yes;  an  injury  to  the  head  can  change  a  person 
completely." 

Maxine  sighed.  She  had  never  seen  the  dark  side  of 
her  father;  she  had  never  loved  him  in  the  true  sense  of 
the  word,  but  she  had  respected  him  and  felt  a  pride 
in  his  strength  and  dominance. 

The  man  who  had  returned  from  Africa  seemed  to 
her  an  inferior  being;  the  wreck,  in  fact,  of  the  man  she 
had  always  known. 

"And  this  happened  to  him,"  said  she,  "when  he 
was  trying  to  save  a  servant's  life?" 

"Ah,"  said  Adams,  "if  you  could  have  seen  it,  you 
would  have  called  it  something  even  higher  than  that  — 
it  was  a  sublime  act." 

He  told  her  the  details,  even  as  he  had  told  them 
to  Schaunard,  but  with  additions. 

"I  myself  was  paralyzed  —  I  could  only  cling  to  the 
tree  and  watch.  The  fury  of  that  storm  of  beasts  com- 
ing down  on  one  was  like  a  wind  —  I  can  put  it  no  other 
way  —  like  a  wind  that  stripped  one's  mind  of  every- 
thing but  just  the  power  of  sight.  I  can  imagine  now 
the  last  day,  when  the  sun  shall  be  turned  into  dark- 
ness and  the  moon  into  blood.  It  was  as  bad  as  that  — 
well,  he  did  not  lose  his  mind  or  nerve,  he  found  time 
to  think  of  the  man  who  was  lying  drugged  with  hemp, 


MAXINE  287 

and  he  found  courage  enough  in  his  heart  to  attempt 
to  save  him.  He  was  fond  of  the  man,  for  the  man  was 
a  great  hunter  though  an  absolute  savage,  without  heart 
or  soul. 

"Without  heart  or  soul "     Adams  paused.    There 

was  something  about  Maxine  Berselius  that  made  her 
different  from  the  ordinary  woman  one  meets  in  life  — 
some  inheritance  from  her  father,  perhaps,  who  knows? 
But  through  the  sweetness  of  her  nature  which  spoke 
in  voice  and  expression,  through  her  loveliness  and  her 
womanliness,  there  shone  a  light  from  within.  Like 
the  gleam  from  the  lamp  that  lives  in  an  opal,  this  mind- 
brightness  of  Maxine's  pierced  the  clouds  of  her  beauty 
capriciously,  now  half-veiled,  now  shining  forth.  It 
was  the  light  of  that  flame  which  men  call  originality. 
Maxine  saw  the  world  by  the  light  of  her  own  lamp. 
Adams,  though  he  had  seen  far  more  of  the  world  than  she, 
had  seen  it  by  the  light  of  other  people's  lamps. 

The  Hostage  House  of  Yandjali  would  have  told 
Maxine  infinitely  more  than  it  told  Adams.  She  would 
have  read  in  Meeus's  face  a  story  that  he  never  deciphered ; 
she  would  have  seen  in  the  people  of  the  Silent  Pools  a 
whole  nation  in  chains,  when  he  with  his  other-people- 
begotten  ideas  of  niggers  and  labour  only  saw  a  few 
recalcitrant  blacks.  It  wanted  skulls  and  bones  to  bring 
him  to  a  sense  of  the  sorrow  around  him;  the  sight  of 
these  people  would  have  told  Maxine  of  their  tears. 

This  instinct  for  the  truth  of  things  made  her  a  reader 
of  people.  Adams  had  interested  her  at  first  sight, 
because  she  found  him  difficult  to  read.  She  had  never 


288  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

met  a  man  like  him  before;  he  belonged  to  a  different 
race.  The  man  in  him  appealed  powerfully  to  the 
woman  in  her;  they  were  physical  affinities.  She  had 
told  him  this  in  a  hundred  ways  half  unconsciously  and 
without  speech  before  they  parted  at  Marseilles,  but  the 
mind  in  him  had  not  appealed  to  the  mind  in  her.  She 
did  not  know  his  mind,  its  stature  or  its  bent,  and  until 
that  knowledge  came  to  her  she  could  not  love  him.  • 

As  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace  after  that 
pronouncement  on  the  spiritual  and  moral  condition  of 
the  Zappo  Zap,  his  thoughts  strayed  for  a  moment  with 
a  waft  of  the  wing  right  across  the  world  to  the  camping 
place  by  the  great  tree.  Out  there  now,  under  the 
stars,  the  tree  and  the  pool  were  lying  just  as  he  had  seen 
them  last.  Away  to  the  east  the  burst  elephant  gun  was 
resting  just  where  it  had  been  dropped;  the  bones  of  the 
giraffe,  clean-picked  and  white,  were  lying  just  where 
the  gun  had  laid  them;  and  the  bones  of  the  man  who 
had  held  the  gun  were  lying  just  where  the  leopards  had 
left  him. 

Adams  knew  nothing  of  this  triangle  drawn  by  death; 
he  still  fancied  the  Zappo  Zap  alive  and  deadly.  Stirred 
into  speech  by  that  thought  he  went  on: 

"A  cannibal  —  a  creature  worse  than  a  tiger  —  that 
was  the  being  for  whom  your  father  risked  his  life." 

"A  cannibal?"  said  Maxine,  opening  her  eyes  wide. 

"Yes;  a  soldier  of  the  Government  who  was  detailed 
to  act  as  our  guide." 

"A  soldier  —  but  what  Government  employs  cannibals 
as  soldiers?" 


MAXINE  289 

"Oh,"  said  Adams,  "they  call  them  soldiers,  that  is 
just  a  name.  Slave  drivers  is  the  real  name,  but  the 
Government  that  employs  them  does  not  use  the  word 
slave  —  oh,  no,  everyone  would  be  shocked  —  scoundrels!" 

He  spoke  the  word  with  suddenly  flashing  eyes,  uplifted 
head,  and  a  face  as  stern  the  face  of  Themis.  He  seemed 
for  a  moment  fronting  some  invisible  foe,  then,  smother- 
ing his  wrath,  he  went  on : 

"I  lose  control  of  myself  when  I  think  of  what  I  have 
seen  —  the  suffering,  the  misery,  and  the  wretchedness. 
I  saw  enough  at  first  to  have  made  me  open  my  eyes,  but 
the  thing  was  not  shown  to  me  really  till  I  saw  the  bones  of 
murdered  people  —  people  whom  I  had  seen  walking 
about  alive  —  lying  there  a  few  weeks  later,  just  skeletons; 
a  little  child  I  had  talked  to  and  played  with " 

He  stopped  and  turned  to  the  fireplace  and  rested 
his  elbow  on  the  mantel.  He  had  turned  his  back  on 
Maxine,  and  volumes  could  not  have  said  more  than  what 
was  expressed  by  that  abrupt  stoppage  of  speech  and 
turning  away. 

The  girl  scarcely  breathed  till  the  man  turned  from  the 
mantelpiece  and  faced  her  again.  There  was  no  trace 
of  emotion  on  his  face,  but  the  trace  of  a  struggle  with  it. 
Maxine's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  he,  "that  I  should  have  dragged 
this  subject  before  you  at  all.  Why  should  I  torment 
your  heart  as  well  as  my  own  ?" 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  She  was  tracing  the 
vague  pattern  of  the  carpet  with  her  eyes,  her  chin  rest- 
ing on  her  hand,  and  the  light  from  above  made  a  halo 


290  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

of  the  burnished  red-gold   hair  that  was  her  crowning 
charm. 

Then  she  said,  speaking  slowly,  "I  am  not  sorry. 
Surely  if  such  things  are,  they  ought  to  be  known.  Why 
should  I  turn  away  my  face  from  suffering?  I  have 
never  done  so  in  Paris,  and  I  have  seen  much  of  the 
misery  of  Paris,  for  I  have  gone  amongst  it  as  much  as 
a  girl  ean,  but  what  you  tell  me  is  beyond  what  I  have 
ever  heard  of,  or  read  of,  or  dreamed.  Tell  me  more, 
give  me  facts;  for,  frankly,  though  I  believe  you,  I  can- 
not yet  fully  realize,  and  with  my  mind  fully  believe. 
I  am  like  Thomas;  I  must  put  my  fingers  in  the  wounds." 

"  Are  you  brave  enough  to  look  at  material  evidence  ?  " 
asked  Adams. 

"Yes;  brave  enough  to  face  the  suffering  of  others 
if  not  my  own " 

He  left  the  room  and  in  a  few  minutes  later  returned 
with  a  parcel.     He  took  from  it  the  skull  he  had  brought 
with  him  through  everything  to  civilization. 

Maxine's  eyes  dilated  when  she  saw  the  thing,  but 
she  did  not  turn  pale,  and  she  looked  steadfastly  at  it 
as  Adams  turned  it  in  his  hands  and  showed  her  by 
the  foramen  magnum  the  hacks  in  the  bone  caused  by 
the  knife. 

She  put  out  her  finger  and  touched  them,  then  she 
said,  "I  believe." 

Adams  put  the  skull  on  the  table;  curious  and  small 
and  ferocious  and  repellent  it  looked.  One  would 
never  have  imagined  the  black  face,  the  grin,  and  the 
rolling  eyes  of  the  creature  to  whom  it  had  once  belonged. 


MAXINE  291 

One  thing  only  about  it  touched  the  heart  with  sadness  — 
its  size. 

"It  is  a  child's,"  said  Maxine. 

"Yes;  the  child  I  told  you  of  —  all  that  remains  of  it." 

He  was  about  to  wrap  the  thing  up  again  when  the  girl 
interposed. 

"Let  it  lie  there  whilst  you  tell  me;  it  will  bring  things 
nearer  to  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of  it  —  poor,  poor  creature. 
Tell  me  all  you  know  —  tell  me  the  worst.  I  am  not  a 
young  lady  for  the  moment,  please,  just  a  person  listening." 

He  took  his  seat  in  an  armchair  opposite  to  her,  and 
resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  talking  just  as  if  he  were 
talking  to  a  man,  found  the  words  he  could  not  find  when, 
pen  in  hand,  half  an  hour  ago,  he  had  tried  to  express 
himself  in  writing. 

He  told  of  the  Hostage  House  at  Yandjali,  and  the 
wretched  creatures  penned  like  animals  eating  their 
miserable  food;  he  told  of  M'Bassa  and  the  Hostage 
House  there,  with  its  iron  rings  and  chains;  he  told  how 
all  over  that  vast  country  these  places  were  dotted,  not 
by  the  hundred  but  by  the  thousand ;  he  told  of  the  misery 
of  the  men  who  were  driven  into  the  dismal  forests,  slaves 
of  masters  worse  than  tigers,  and  of  a  task  that  would 
never  end  as  long  as  rubber  grew  and  Christ  was  a  name 
in  Europe  and  not  a  power;  he  told  the  awful  fact  that 
murder  there  was  used  every  day  as  an  agricultural 
implement,  that  people  were  operated  upon,  and  suf- 
fered amputation  of  limbs,  not  because  of  disease;  and 
that  their  sex  and  age  —  those  two  last  appeals  of  Nature 
to  brutality  —  had  no  voice;  he  told  the  whole  bitter  tale 


THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

of  tears  and  blood,  but  he  could  not  tell  her  all,  for  she 
was  a  girl,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  speak  even  before 
a  man  of  the  crimes  against  Nature,  the  crimes  against 
men,  against  women,  and  against  children,  that  even  if 
the  Congo  State  were  swept  away  to-morrow,  will  leave 
Belgium's  name  in  the  world's  history  more  detestable 
than  the  names  of  the  unspeakable  cities  sunk  in  the 
Dead  Sea. 

Maxine  listened,  entranced,  swayed  between  the  terror 
of  the  tale  and  the  power  of  the  man  who  was  telling  it. 

Ah!  if  he  could  have  spoken  to  Europe  as  he  spoke 
to  her;  if  he  could  have  made  Europe  see  as  he  made  her 
see,  what  a  whirlwind  of  indignation  would  have  arisen; 
but  he  could  not. 

It  was  the  magnet  of  her  sympathy  that  marshalled 
the  facts,  clad  them  in  burning  language,  and  led  them 
forth  in  battalions  that  stormed  her  mind  and  made  her 
believe  what  seemed  unbelievable.  Without  that  sym- 
pathy, his  words  would  have  been  cold  and  lifeless  state- 
ments bearing  little  conviction. 

When  he  had  finished,  she  did  that  which  a  woman 
never  does  unless  moved  by  the  very  highest  excitement. 
She  rose  up  and  paced  the  floor  thrice.  Without  speak- 
ing, she  walked  the  length  of  the  room,  then  she  turned 
to  Adams. 

"But  this  must  cease." 

"This  shall  cease,"  said  he,  "if  I  can  only  make  myself 
heard.  To-day  —  to-night  —  just  before  you  came  in, 
I  was  trying  to  put  the  thing  on  paper  —  trying  to  put 
down  what  I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes,  and  heard 


MAXINE  293 

with  my  own  ears,  but  the  ink  seems  ice.  What  I  write 
seems  nothing,  nothing  beside  what  I  have  seen.  The 
mere  statement  that  so  many  were  killed,  so  many  were 
tortured,  conveys  nothing  of  the  reality.  The  thing  is 
too  big  for  me.  God  made  it,  I  suppose;  but  I  wish  to 
God  I  had  never  seen  it." 

Maxine  was  standing  now  with  her  hands  resting 
on  the  back  of  an  armchair.  She  seemed  scarcely  lis- 
tening to  what  her  companion  was  saying.  She  was 
listening,  but  she  was  thinking  as  well. 

"You  cannot  do  everything  yourself,"  said  she,  at 
last.  "You  must  get  others  to  help,  and  in  this  I  can, 
perhaps,  assist  you.  Will  you  go  to-morrow  and  see 
Monsieur  Pugin?  I  do  not  know  him  personally,  but  I 
know  a  friend  of  his.  I  will  send  him  a  note  early 
to-morrow  morning,  and  the  servant  can  bring  back  the 
letter  of  introduction.  You  could  call  upon  him  to-morrow 
afternoon." 

"Who  is  Monsieur  Pugin  ?  " 

This  question,  showing  such  a  boundless  ignorance 
of  every-day  French  life  and  literature,  rather  shocked 
Maxine.  She  explained  that  Ary  Pugin,  the  author  of 
"Absolution"  and  twenty  other  works  equally  beautiful, 
was  above  all  other  men  fitted  to  bring  home  to  France 
the  story  of  this  great  sin.  "Absolution,"  that  masterpiece, 
had  shown  France  her  cruelty  in  the  expulsion  of  the 
religious  orders.  France  had  read  it  weeping,  drying 
her  tears  with  one  hand  and  continuing  the  expulsion 
of  the  religious  orders  with  the  other. 

That,  however,  was  not  Pugin's  fault;  he  had  done 


294  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

his  best.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  logic  and  sentiment 
are  so  largely  constituent  of  the  French  nature,  mak- 
ing between  them  that  paradox,  the  French  mind. 

"I  will  go  and  see  him,"  said  Adams,  when  the  girl 
had  explained  what  Pugin  was,  what  Pugin  did,  and  what 
Pugin  had  written.  "A  man  like  that  could  do  more 
with  a  stroke  of  his  pen,  than  I  with  weary  years 
of  blundering  attempts  to  write.  I  can  never  thank 
you  enough  for  listening  to  me.  It  is  strange,  but 
half  the  weight  of  the  thing  seems  to  have  passed  from 
my  mind." 

"  To  mine,"  she  replied.  Then,  with  charming  naivete, 
she  held  out  both  hands  to  him. 

"  Good  night." 

As  he  held  the  door  open,  and  as  she  passed  out,  he 
realized  that,  during  the  last  few  months,  his  faith  in  the 
goodness  of  God  —  the  old  simple  faith  of  his  childhood  — 
had  been  all  but  stolen  by  ferocious  and  fiendish  hands 
from  his  mind,  and  that  just  now,  in  some  miraculous  way, 
it  had  been  returned. 

It  was  as  though  the  gentle  hands  of  Maxine  had  put 
it  back. 

Maxine,  when  she  reached  her  own  apartments,  turned 
on  the  electric  light  in  her  sitting  room,  and  sat  down  at 
once  to  write  to  the  friend  who  was  a  friend  of  Pugin's. 

This  friend  was  Sabatier. 

She  had  studied  art  under  him,  and  between  artist 
and  pupil  lay  that  mysterious  bond  which  unites  crafts- 
men. For  Maxine  was  great  in  knowledge  and  power, 
and  above  all  in  that  instinct  without  which  an  artist 


MAXINE  295 

is  at  best  an  animated  brush,  a  pencil  under  the  dominion 
of  mechanical  force. 

As  she  wrote,  she  little  dreamed  that  the  sympathy 
burning  in  her  heart  and  moving  to  eloquence  her  pen, 
was  a  thing  born  not  from  the  sufferings  of  an  afflicted 
people,  but  of  the  love  of  a  man.  A  child  of  her  mind 
begotten  by  the  man  she  had  just  left,  and  whom,  that 
night,  she  had  learned  to  love. 


CHAPTER    XL 

PUGIN 

PUGIN  lived  in  the  Boulevard  Haussmann.  He 
had  begun  life  quite  low  down  in  the  Parisian 
world  on  the  quays  as  apprentice  to  Manasis, 
a  jew  book-dealer,  who  has  been  dead  twenty-five  years, 
whose  money  has  been  dispersed,  whose  name  has  been 
forgotten,  of  whom  nothing  remains  on  earth  but  the 
few  hours  a  day  of  time  filched  from  him  by  Pugin. 

Pugin  had  a  hard  and  bitter  fight  for  twenty  years 
before  he  obtained  recognition.  The  garret  and  star- 
vation act  had  been  unduly  prolonged  in  the  case  of  this 
genius,  and  it  seemed  a  mystery  where  and  how  in  the 
ruined  city  which  is  at  the  heart  of  every  city,  in  that 
cour  des  Miracles  where  the  Bohemians  camp,  he  had 
found,  like  a  crystal  vase,  his  exquisite  style,  preserved 
it  unbroken  by  mischance  or  shock  of  fate,  and  carried 
it  safely  at  last  to  the  hands  of  Fame. 

He  was  very  rich  now,  very  powerful,  and  very  for- 
tunate. Charitable,  too,  and  ever  ready  to  assist  a  fellow- 
worker  in  straitened  circumstances,  and  to-day  as  he  sat 
reading  in  the  cool  recesses  of  his  library,  and  listening 
to  the  sound  of  the  Paris  he  loved  floating  in  with  the 
warm  June  air  through  the  open  window,  he  felt  at 

296 


PUGIN  297 

peace  with  all  the  world  and  in  a  mood  to  do  justice  to 
his  bitterest  enemy. 

The  striped  sun-blinds  filtered  the  blaze  outside,  let- 
ting pass  only  a  diffused  and  honey-coloured  twilight; 
a  great  bowl  of  roses  filled  the  room  with  the  simple  and 
deep  poetry  of  summer,  the  story  of  the  hedges  and  the 
fields,  of  orchards  shot  through  with  the  voices  of  birds, 
of  cattle  knee-deep  in  cool  water  where  the  dragon-flies 
keep  up  their  eternal  dance  to  the  flute-like  ripple  of  the 
river  amidst  the  reeds. 

Pugin,  his  book  upon  his  knees,  was  enjoying  these 
pictures  of  summer  woven  by  perfume,  when  a  servant 
entered  and  handed  him  Adams's  card  and  the  letter  of 
introduction  written  by  Sabatier. 

He  ordered  the  visitor  to  be  shown  in.  Adams,  when 
he  entered,  found  himself  before  a  small  man  with  a 
big  head;  an  ugly  little  man,  with  a  look  of  kindness 
and  a  very  gracious  and  charming  manner. 

To  Pugin  Adams  seemed  a  giant.  A  giant  bronzed 
by  unknown  suns,  talking  French  indifferently  well, 
and  with  a  foreign  accent.  An  interesting  person,  indeed, 
but  a  being  quite  beyond  his  range  of  knowledge. 

Pugin,  in  physical  matters,  was  timid  as  a  rabbit. 
He  had  never  travelled  farther  than  Trouville  or  Ostend, 
and  when  he  indicated  a  chair,  and  when  these  two  sat 
down  to  talk  to  each  other,  the  mastiff-man  felt  instinct- 
ively the  presence  of  the  rabbit-man,  and  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  begin. 

Not  for  long,  though.  Bluffly,  and  with  little  grace 
enough,  but  with  earnestness  and  a  cunning  one  would 


298  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

never  have  suspected,  he  told  of  Maxine's  great  admira- 
tion for  the  author's  work,  and  how  she  had  suggested 
the  enlistment  of  the  said  author  in  the  crusade  against 
crime  which  he,  Adams,  was  endeavouring  to  raise. 

Pugin  listened,  making  little  bows,  sniffing  the  lettuce 
which  the  mastiff-man  had  so  cunningly  placed  before 
his  nose. 

Then  honestly  and  plainly  and  well,  Adams  told  his 
tale,  and  the  rabbit  held  up  its  hands  in  horror  at  the 
black  doings  disclosed  to  it.  But  it  was  horror  divorced 
from  sentiment.  Pugin  felt  almost  as  great  a  revulsion 
toward  the  negroes  upon  whom  these  things  were  done 
as  toward  the  doers. 

He  could  not  see  the  vast  drama  in  its  true  proportions 
and  its  poetical  setting  of  forest,  plain,  and  sky.  The 
outlandish  names  revolted  him;  he  could  not  see  Yand- 
jali  and  its  heat-stricken  palms  or  M'Bassa  burning  in 
the  sun. 

But  he  listened  politely  and  it  was  this  that  chilled  the 
heart  of  the  story-teller  who  instinctively  felt  that  though 
he  had  shocked  his  hearer,  he  had  not  aroused  that  high 
spirit  of  revolt  against  injustice  which  converts  a  man 
into  a  living  trumpet,  a  living  axe,  or  a  living  sword. 

Pugin  would  have  been  a  great  force  could  his  senti- 
ment have  been  awakened ;  but  he  could  not  see  palm  trees. 

"What  would  you  have?  You  cannot  grow  baobab? 
on  the  Boulevards. " 

"If  a  foil"  said  he,  "it  is  terrible  what  you  tell  me, 
but  what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"I  thought  you  might  help,"  said  Adams. 


PUGIN  299 

"I?  With  all  the  power  possible  and  goodwill.  It 
is  evident  to  me  that  should  you  wish  for  success  in  this 
matter,  you  should  found  a  society." 

"Yes?" 

"There  is  nothing  done  in  a  public  way  without  coop- 
eration. You  must  found  a  society;  you  may  use  my 
name.  I  will  even  let  you  put  it  on  the  committee  list. 
I  will  also  subscribe." 

Now  Pugin  was  on  the  committee  lists  of  half  a  dozen 
charitable  and  humanitarian  concerns.  His  secretary 
had  them  all  down  in  a  book;  but  Pugin  himself,  lost  in 
his  art  and  the  work  of  his  life,  had  forgotten  their  very 
names.  So  would  it  be  with  this. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  visitor. 

Pugin  would  lend  his  purse  to  the  cause,  and  his  name, 
but  he  would  not  lend  his  pen  —  simply  because  he  could 
not.  To  every  literary  man  there  are  dead  subjects; 
this  question  was  dead  to  the  author  of  "Absolution"  — 
as  uninspiring  as  cold  mutton. 

"Thanks,"  said  Adams,  and  rose  to  take  his  leave. 
His  rough-hewn  mind  understood  with  marvellous  per- 
spicuity Pugin's  position. 

"And  one  moment,"  cried  the  little  man,  after  he  had 
bidden  his  visitor  good-bye  and  the  latter  was  leaving 
the  room.  "One  moment;  why  did  I  not  think  of  it 
before?  You  might  go  and  see  Ferminard." 

He  ran  to  a  desk  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  took  a  visit- 
ing card  and  scribbled  Ferminard 's  address  upon  it, 
explaining  as  he  wrote  that  Ferminard  was  the  deputy 
for in  Provence;  a  Socialist  it  is  true,  but  a  terrible 


300  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

man  when  roused;  that  the  very  name  of  injustice  was 
sufficient  to  bring  this  lion  from  his  den. 

"Tell  him  Pugin  said  so,"  cried  he,  following  his 
visitor  this  time  out  on  the  landing  and  patting  him  on 
the  shoulder  in  a  fatherly  manner,  "and  you  will  find 
him  in  the  Rue  Auber,  No.  14;  it  is  all  on  the  card;  and 

convey    my    kind    regards    to    Mademoiselle ,   that 

charming  lady  to  whose  appreciation  of  my  poor  work  I 
owe  the  pleasure  of  your  visit." 

"Nice  little  man,"  said  Adams  to  himself  as  he  walked 
down  the  Boulevard  Haussmann. 

He  found  Ferminard  at  home,  in  an  apartment  smell- 
ing of  garlic  and  the  south.  Ferminard,  a  tall,  black- 
bearded  creature,  with  a  glittering  eye;  a  brigand  from 
the  Rhone  Valley  who  had  flung  himself  into  the  politics 
of  his  country  as  a  torpedo  flings  itself  into  the  sea,  greeted 
Adams  with  effusion,  when  he  read  Pugin's  card;  gave 
him  cigarettes,  and  shut  the  open  window  in  honour  of 
his  guest. 

He  worked  himself  into  a  state  of  indignation  over 
Adams's  story;  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  knew  the  whole 
thing  well;  but  he  was  too  polite  to  discount  his 
visitor's  grievance,  besides  it  gave  him  an  opportunity 
to  declaim  —  and  of  course  the  fact  that  a  king  was 
at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  added  keenness  to  the  arrows 
of  his  invective. 

As  Adams  listened,  delighted  to  have  awakened  such 
a  trumpet;  as  he  listened  to  Ferminard  thundering 
against  all  that  over  there,  speaking  as  though  he  were 
addressing  the  Chambre,  and  as  though  he  had  known 


PUGIN  301 

Africa  intimately  from  his  childhood,  he  noticed  grad- 
ually and  with  alarm  that  the  topic  was  changing;  just 
a  moment  ago  it  was  Africa  and  its  luckless  niggers;  the 
Prove^al  imagination  picturing  them  in  glowing  colours, 
and  the  Provencal  tongue  rolling  off  their  disabilities  and 
woes.  One  would  have  fancied  from  the  fervour  of  the 
man  that  is  was  Ferminard  who  had  just  returned  from 
the  Congo,  not  Adams. 

Well,  a  moment  after,  and  Africa  had  quite  fallen  out 
of  the  discussion.  As  a  child  lets  a  Noah's  Ark  fall 
from  its  hands  —  elephants,  zebras  and  all  on  to  the 
floor  whilst  he  grasps  for  a  new  toy  —  so  Ferminard 
let  Africa  tumble  whilst  he  grasped  for  Socialism,  found 
it  and  swung  it  like  a  rattle,  and  Socialism  went  the  way 
of  Africa  as  he  seized  at  last  that  darling  toy  —  himself. 
The  speech,  in  its  relationship  to  the  subject  in  point,  was 
the  intellectual  counterpart  of  the  cry  of  those  mechan- 
ical pigs  which  the  street  venders  blow  up,  and  which, 
standing  on  a  board,  scream  in  the  face  of  Oxford  Street, 
loudly  at  first,  and  then,  as  the  figure  collapses,  weaken- 
ing in  voice  to  the  buzzing  of  a  fly. 

Ferminard  was,  in  fact,  a  great  child  with  a  good  heart, 
a  Proven9al  imagination,  a  power  of  oratory,  a  quick- 
ness in  seizing  upon  little  things  and  making  them  seem 
great,  coupled  with  a  rather  obscure  understanding 
as  to  the  relative  value  of  mountains  and  mole -hills. 
A  noise  maker  of  a  first-class  description,  but  useless  for 
any  serious  work.  Feu  de  bruit  was  his  motto,  and  he 
lived  up  to  it. 

It  is  only  when  you  try  to  enlist  men  on  your  side 


302  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

in  some  great  and  holy  cause,  that  you  come  to  some 
knowledge  of  the  general  man's  weakness  and  want 
of  holiness  —  your  own  included.  Adams,  during  the 
fortnight  that  followed  his  visit  to  Pugin,  had  this  fact 
borne  in  on  him.  All  the  thinking  minds  of  the  centre  of 
civilization  were  so  busy  thinking  thoughts  of  their 
own  making,  that  it  was  impossible  to  attract  their  atten- 
tion for  more  than  a  moment;  from  Bostoc  the  dramatist 
to  Bastiche  the  anarchist,  each  individual  was  turn- 
ing his  own  crank  diligently,  and  not  to  be  disturbed, 
even  by  Papeete's  skull. 

With  such  a  thing  in  one's  hand,  picked  up  like  some 
horrible  talisman  which,  if  not  buried,  will  eventually 
cast  its  spell  upon  human  thought  and  the  future  of  the 
world;  with  such  a  thing  in  one's  hand,  surely  the 
Church  would  present  itself  to  the  mind  as  a  court  of 
appeal. 

But  as  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  had  actually  put 
its  broad  back  against  the  door  of  the  torture  chamber, 
and  was,  in  fact,  holding  it  tight  shut  whilst  Papeete's 
head  was  being  hacked  from  his  body,  it  would  scarcely 
be  logical  to  bring  out  the  victim's  skull  hoping  for  redress. 
Other  denominations  being  of  such  little  power  in 
France,  Adams  determined  to  leave  the  attempt  to 
rouse  them  till  he  reached  England,  whither  he  deter- 
mined to  go  as  soon  as  Berselius's  health  would  per- 
mit him. 

One  evening,  a  fortnight  after  his  visit  to  Pugin,  on 
his  return  to  the  Avenue  MalakofF,  Maxine  met  him 
in  the  halL 


PUGIN  303 

He  saw  at  once  from  her  face  that  something  had 
happened. 

Berselius  was  worse;  that  afternoon  he  had  suddenly 
developed  acute  neuralgia  of  the  right  side  of  the  head, 
and  this  had  been  followed  almost  immediately  by 
twitching  and  numbness  of  the  left  arm.  Thenard 
had  been  summoned  and  he  had  diagnosed  pressure  on 
the  brain,  or,  at  least,  irritation  from  depressed  bone, 
due  to  the  accident. 

He  declared  himself  for  operation,  and  he  had  gone 
now  to  make  arrangements  for  nurses  and  assistants. 

"He  will  operate  this  evening,"  said  Maxine. 

"And  Madame  Berselius?" 

"I  have  telegraphed  for  her." 


CHAPTER    XLI 

THE    RETURN    OF   CAPTAIN    BERSELIU8 

BERSELIUS,  for  the  last  fortnight,  had  been 
going  back,  slowly  going  from  bad  to  worse, 
and  keeping  the  fact  to  himself. 

Sulphonal,  trional,  morphia,  each  tried  in  turn  had 
no  power  to  prevent  him  from  dreaming.  Sleep  as 
soundly  as  he  would,  just  as  he  was  awaking,  the  black 
blanket  of  slumber,  turned  up  at  a  corner  or  an  edge  by 
some  mysterious  hand,  would  reveal  a  dream  or  part  of  one. 

There  was  nothing  in  these  dreams  to  terrify  him 
when  he  was  dreaming  them;  in  them,  he  was  just  the 
old  brave  Berselius  that  nothing  could  terrify,  but  there 
was  often  a  good  deal  to  terrify  him  when  he  awoke. 

Many  of  them  were  quite  innocent  and  as  fatuous 
as  dreams  are  wont  to  be,  but  even  these  innocent  dreams 
fretted  the  soul  of  the  waking  man,  for  in  every  scrap 
and  vestige  of  them  he  recognized  the  mind  of  that  other 
personality. 

After  the  first  few  days,  his  intellect,  so  severe  and 
logical,  began  to  lose  its  severity  and  logic,  and  to  take 
up  sides  with  his  heart  and  to  cry  aloud  against  the 
injustice  of  this  persecution. 

Why   should   he   be  haunted   like  this?    He  feft   no 

304 


THE  RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  305 

trace  of  remorse  now  for  the  past;  the  sense  of  injustice 
swallowed  all  that.  Every  day  seemed  to  drive  that  past 
further  off,  and  to  increase  the  sense  of  detachment 
from  that  other  man  and  his  works;  yet  every  night  a 
hand,  like  the  hand  of  some  remorseless  chess  player, 
put  things  back  in  their  places. 

With  the  falling  of  the  curtain  of  sleep  he  became 
metamorphosed . 

Then  came  the  day  when  the  evil  he  was  suffering 
from  declared  itself  in  a  physical  manner  and  Thenard 
was  called  in. 

Thenard  found  his  patient  in  bed.  His  mind  was 
quite  clear,  but  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  unequal; 
there  was  numbness  in  the  left  arm  and  want  of  grip 
in  the  hand.  He  had  been  prepared  for  the  change 
evident  in  Berselius's  face  and  manner,  for  Maxine  had 
told  him  in  a  few  words  of  the  accident  and  loss  of  mem- 
ory, and  as  he  took  his  seat  by  the  bedside  he  was  about 
to  put  some  questions  relative  to  the  injury,  when  Ber- 
selius  forestalled  him. 

Berselius  knew  something  about  medicine.  He 
guessed  the  truth  about  his  own  case,  and  he  gave  a  suc- 
cinct account  of  the  accident  and  the  loss  of  memory 
following  it. 

"This  is  due  to  the  result  of  the  injury, is  it  not?"  said 
Berselius,  pointing  to  his  left  arm  when  he  had  finished. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  said  Thenard,  who  knew  his  patient, 
and  that  plain  speaking  would  be  best. 

"  Some  pressure  ?  " 

"So  I  imagine." 


306  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid  of  speaking  out.  I  don't  mind 
the  worst.  Will  an  operation  remove  that  pressure  ? " 

"If,  as  I  imagine,  there  is  some  pressure  from  the 
inner  table  of  the  skull  on  the  brain,  it  will." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Berselius,  "I  want  you  to  listen 
to  me  attentively;  ever  since  that  accident,  or,  at  least, 
since  I  regained  memory,  I  have  felt  that  I  am  not  the 
same  man.  Only  in  sleep  do  I  become  myself  again  — 
do  you  understand  me?  I  have  quite  different  aims 
and  objects;  my  feelings  about  things  are  quite  different; 
my  past  before  the  accident  is  ruled  off  from  my  present 
-  that  is,  when  I  am  awake. 

"When  I  dream  I  become  my  old  self  again  —  is  that 
not  strange  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Thenard,  "every  man  is  double.  We 
have  numerous  cases  where,  from  accident  or  other 
circumstances,  a  man's  personality  changes;  one  side 
of  his  nature  is  suppressed.  There  is  one  strange  point 
about  your  case,  though,  and  that  is  the  waking  up  of 
the  suppressed  personality  so  vividly  during  sleep;  but 
in  your  case  it  is  perhaps  not  so  strange." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  and  excuse  me  for  being  personal  even 
though  I  am  complimentary,  your  personality  as  I  knew 
you  before  your  accident  was  so  profound,  and  vivid, 
and  powerful,  that  even  though  it  is  suppressed  it  must 
speak.  And  it  speaks  in  dreams." 

"  So ! — perhaps  you  are  right.  Now  tell  me,  if  you  oper- 
ate and  remove  the  pressure,  may  I  become  myself  again  ?  " 

"You  may." 


THE  RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  307 

"Even  after  all  this  time  ?  " 

"The  mind,"  said  Thenard,  "has  nothing  to  do  with 
time.  At  the  Battle  of  the  Nile,  a  sea  captain,  one  of 
those  iron-headed  Englishmen,  was  struck  on  his  iron 
head  with  fragment  of  shell.  He  lost  his  memory. 
Eight  months  after  he  was  trephined;  he  awoke  from 
the  operation  completing  the  order  he  was  giving  to  his 
sailors  when  the  accident  cut  him  short " 

"I  would  be  the  same  man.  I  would  not  be  tormented 
with  the  other  self  which  is  me,  now  ?  " 

"Possibly  —  I  do  not  say  probably,  but  possibly." 

"Then,"  said  Berselius,  "for  God's  sake,  operate 
at  once." 

"I  would  like  to  wait  for  another  twelve  hours,"  said 
Thenard,  rising  and  re-examining  the  slight  dent  of  his 
patient's  skull. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  to  see  if  things  may  be  cleared  up  a  bit,  and 
the  necessity  for  operation  be  removed." 

"Operate." 

"You  know,  in  every  operation,  however  slight,  there 
is  an  element  of  danger  to  life." 

"Life!  what  do  I  care?  I  insist  on  your  operating. 
Not  another  night  shall  pass " 

"As  you  will,"  said  Thenard. 

"And  now,"  said  Berselius,  "make  your  preparations, 
and  send  me  my  secretary." 

At  twelve  o'clock  that  night,  Maxine  was  seated 
in  the  library,  with  a  book  which  she  had  been 


308  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

vainly  trying  to  read  face  downward  on  the  floor 
beside  her. 

Thenard,  his  assistant  surgeon,  and  two  nurses,  had 
arrived  shortly  after  ten.  Operating  table,  instruments, 
everything  necessary  had  been  brought,  set  up,  and  fixed 
by  Thenard 's  own  man. 

Adams  had  no  part  in  the  proceedings  except  as  a 
looker-on.  No  man  could  assist  Thenard  in  an  opera- 
tion who  was  not  broken  to  the  job,  for,  when 
operating  Thenard  became  quite  a  different  person 
to  the  everyday  Thenard  of  lecture  room  and  hospital 
ward. 

That  harsh  voice  which  we  noticed  in  him  in  the 
first  pages  of  this  book  when  on  entering  the  lecture 
room  of  the  Beaujon  he  could  not  find  his  coloured 
chalks,  came  out  during  an  operation,  and  he  would 
curse  his  assistant  to  the  face  for  the  slightest  fault  or 
fancied  fault,  and  he  would  speak  to  the  nurses  as  no 
Frenchman  ever  spoke  to  Frenchwoman  unless  with 
deliberate  intent  to  insult.  When  the  last  stitch  was  in, 
all  this  changed;  nurses  and  assistant  forgot  what  had 
been  said,  and  in  the  ease  of  released  tension,  worshipped 
more  than  ever  the  cadaverous  genius  who  was  now 
unwinding  from  his  head  and  mouth  the  antiseptic 
gauze  in  which  he  always  veiled  them  when  operating. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  pointed  to  a  few  minutes  past 
the  hour,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Adams  came  in. 

Maxine  rose  to  meet  him. 

She  read  both  good  and  bad  news  in  his  face. 

"The  operation  has  been  successful,  but  there  is  great 


THE  RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  309 

weakness."  He  rolled  an  armchair  for  her  to  sit  down, 
and  then  he  told  her  as  much  as  she  could  understand. 

Thenard  had  found  a  slight  depression  of  the  inner 
table  of  the  skull,  and  some  congestion  and  thickening 
of  the  dura  mater.  It  all  dated  from  the  accident.  There 
would,  without  doubt,  have  been  severe  inflammation 
of  the  brain,  but  for  Berselius's  splendid  condition  at  the 
time  of  the  accident,  and  the  fact  that  Adams  had  bled 
him  within  an  hour  of  the  injury.  Thenard  had  relieved 
the  pressure  by  operation,  but  there  was  great  weakness. 

It  was  impossible  to  say  what  the  result  would  be  yet. 

"Has  he  regained  consciousness?" 

"He  is  just  recovering  from  the  anaesthetic." 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  asked  where 
Thenard  was. 

"He  has  left.  He  has  to  operate  again  to-night  on  a 
case  which  has  just  called  for  him  by  telephone.  He 
asked  me  to  tell  you  that  everything  possible  has  been 
done.  He  will  call  in  the  morning,  and  he  has  left  every- 
thing till  then  in  my  hands." 

"I  shall  not  go  to  bed,"  said  Maxine.  "I  could  not 
sleep,  and  should  my  father  want  to  see  me,  I  shall  be 
ready." 

"Yes,"  said  Adams,  "perhaps  it  will  be  better  so.  I 
will  go  up  and  stay  with  him,  and  I  will  call  you  if  it  is 
necessary." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Maxine  took  up  the  book  she 
had  dropped,  but  she  could  not  read.  Her  eyes,  travelling 
about  the  room,  rested  here  and  there  on  the  trophies 
and  the  guns  and  the  wild  implements  of  destruction 


310  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

collected  by  the  hunter,  who  was  now  lying  upstairs,  like 
a  child  dandled  on  the  dark  knees  of  death. 

The  books  on  philosophy,  natural  history,  oceano- 
graphy, and  history,  in  their  narrow  cases  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  weapons  of  destruction  and  the  relics 
of  the  wild.  The  room  was  like  a  mirror  of  the  mind 
of  Berselius,  that  strange  mind  in  which  the  savage  dwelt 
with  the  civilized  man,  and  the  man  of  valour  by  the  side 
of  the  philosopher. 

But  the  strangest  contrast  in  the  room  was  effected 
by  Maxine  herself  —  the  creation  of  Berselius  —  his 
child,  blossoming  like  a  beautiful  and  fragile  flower, 
amidst  the  ruins  of  the  things  he  had  destroyed. 

When,  after  daybreak,  Adams  came  to  find  her,  she 
was  asleep. 

Berselius,  awaking  from  a  sleep  that  had  followed 
the  effects  of  the  anaesthetic,  had  asked  for  her. 

Thenard  had  fixed  upon  the  white  marble  bathroom 
adjoining  Berselius's  sleeping  chamber  as  his  operating 
theatre,  and  after  the  operation  the  weakness  of  the 
patient  was  so  great,  and  the  night  so  hot,  they  deter- 
mined to  make  up  a  bed  for  him  there,  as  it  was  the 
coolest  room  in  the  house. 

It  was  a  beautiful  room.  Walls,  pillars,  floor  and  ceil- 
ing, of  pure  white  Carrara  marble,  and  in  the  floor,  near 
the  window,  a  sunk  bath,  which,  when  not  in  use,  was 
covered  by  a  grating  of  phosphor  bronze,  showing  a 
design  of  sea  serpents  and  seaweed.  There  were  no 
basins  or  lavatory  arrangements,  nothing  at  all  to  break 
the  pure  and  simple  charm  of  this  ideal  bathing-place 


THE  RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  311 

whose  open  French  window  showed,  beyond  a  balcony 
of  marble,  the  tops  of  trees  waving  against  the  blue  sky 
of  early  morning. 

Berselius  was  lying  on  the  bed  which  had  been  arranged 
for  him  near  the  door;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  waving 
tree  tops.  He  turned  his  head  slightly  when  Maxine 
entered,  and  looked  at  her  long  and  deliberately. 

In  that  one  glance  Maxine  saw  all.  He  was  himself 
again.  The  old,  imperious  expression  had  returned; 
just  a  trace  of  the  half-smile  was  visible  about  his  lips. 

The  great  weakness  of  the  man,  far  from  veiling  the 
returned  personality,  served  as  a  background  which  made 
it  more  visible.  One  could  see  the  will  dominating  the 
body,  and  the  half-helpless  hands  lying  on  the  coverlet 
presented  a  striking  contrast  to  the  inextinguishable 
fire  of  the  eye. 

Maxine  sat  down  on  the  chair  by  the  bed.  She  did 
not  attempt  to  stroke  the  hand  near  her,  and  she  smothered 
whatever  emotion  she  felt,  for  she  knew  the  man  who 
had  returned. 

"Your  mother?"  said  Berselius,  who  had  just  suffi- 
cient voice  to  convey  interrogation  as  well  as  words. 

"She  has  not  returned  yet;  we  telegraphed  for  her, 
she  will  be  here  to-day." 

"Ah!" 

The  sick  man  turned  his  head  again,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  tree  tops. 

The  hot,  pure,  morning  air  came  through  the  open 
window,  bringing  with  it  the  chirruping  and  bickering 
of  sparrows;  a  day  of  splendour  and  great  heat  was 


312  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

breaking  over  Paris.  Life  and  the  joy  of  life  filled  the 
world,  the  lovely  world  which  men  contrive  to  make  so 
terrible,  so  full  of  misery,  so  full  of  tears. 

Suddenly  Berselius  turned  his  head,  and  his  eyes  found 
Adams  with  a  not  unkindly  gaze  in  them. 

"Well,  doctor,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  stronger  than  the 
voice  with  which  he  had  spoken  to  Maxine.  "This  is 
the  end  of  our  hunting,  it  seems." 

Adams,  instead  of  replying,  took  the  hand  that  was 
lying  on  the  coverlet,  and  Berselius  returned  the  pressure, 
and  then  relinquished  his  hold. 

Just  a  handshake,  yet  it  told  Adams  in  some  majestic 
way,  that  the  man  on  the  bed  knew  that  all  was  up  with 
him,  and  that  this  was  good-bye. 

Berselius  then  spoke  for  a  while  to  Maxine  on  indif- 
ferent things.  He  did  not  mention  his  wife's  name,  and 
he  spoke  in  a  cold  and  abstracted  voice.  He  seemed  to 
Adams  as  though  he  were  looking  at  death,  perfectly 
serenely,  and  with  that  level  gaze  which  never  in  this 
world  had  been  lowered  before  man  or  brute. 

Then  he  said  he  was  tired,  and  wished  to  sleep. 

Maxine  rose,  but  the  woman  in  her  had  to  speak. 
She  took  the  hand  on  the  coverlet,  and  Berselius,  who  was 
just  dozing  off,  started  awake  again. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  as  though  he  had  forgotten  something, 
then  he  raised  the  little  hand  of  Maxine  and  touched  it 
with  his  lips. 

Then  he  asked  that  his  wife  should  be  sent  to  him 
on  her  return. 

Alone,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  one  might  have  fancied 


THE  RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  BERSELIUS  313 

that  he  slept,  yet  every  now  and  then  his  eyelids  would 
lift,  and  his  eyes,  unveiled  by  drowsiness,  would  fix 
themselves  on  some  point  in  the  room  with  the  intent 
gaze  of  a  person  who  is  listening;  so  in  the  forest,  or 
on  the  plain,  or  by  the  cane  brake  had  he  often  listened 
at  night,  motionless,  gun  in  hand  and  deadly,  for  the 
tiger  or  the  water  buck. 

Half  an  hour  passed  and  then  from  the  adjoining 
room  came  a  footstep,  the  door  opened  gently,  and  Ma- 
dame Berselius  entered.  She  was  dressed  just  as  she 
had  traveled  from  Vaux.  She  had  only  just  arrived,  to 
find  death  in  the  house,  and  as  she  looked  at  the  figure 
on  the  bed  she  fancied  she  beheld  it  indeed. 

Closing  the  door  gently  she  approached  the  bed.  No, 
it  was  not  death  but  sleep.  He  was  breathing  evenly 
and  rhythmically,  sleeping,  apparently,  as  peacefully 
as  a  child. 

She  was  about  to  turn  away  when,  like  a  bather  who 
has  ventured  into  some  peaceful  tropic  rock  pool  wherein 
lurks  an  octopus,  she  found  herself  seized  and  held. 
Berselius's  eyes  were  open,  he  was  not  asleep.  His  gaze 
was  fixed  on  hers,  and  he  held  her  with  his  eyes  as  the 
cat  holds  the  bird  or  the  python  the  man. 

He  had  been  waiting  for  her  with  the  patience  and 
the  artfulness  of  the  hunter,  but  no  game  had  ever  in- 
spired such  ferocity  in  him  as  this  woman,  vile  and  little, 
who  yet  had  abased  him  to  the  earth. 

He  was  dying,  but  what  beast  full  of  life  is  more  dan- 
gerous than  the  dying  tiger? 

As  Berselius  gazed  at  the  woman,  she,  with  all  her 


314  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

will  urging  her  body  to  retreat,  approached  him.  Then, 
her  knees  touching  the  bed,  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside 
him  and  his  hand  fell  on  her  shoulder. 

Holding  her  thus,  he  gazed  on  her  coldly,  dispassion- 
ately, and  critically,  as  an  emperor  of  old  might  have 
gazed  on  a  defaulting  slave.  Then,  as  though  his  anger 
had  turned  to  disgust,  as  though  disdaining  to  waste  a 
word  on  her,  he  struck  her  full  in  the  face  with  the 
back  of  his  right  hand,  a  blow  that  caused  her  to  cry 
out  and  sent  her  groveling  on  the  marble  floor,  where 
a  moment  after  the  nurse  on  duty,  attracted  by  the  cry, 
found  her. 

Berselius  was  dead,  but  the  mocking  smile  on  his  lips 
remained,  almost  justified  by  the  words  of  the  nurse 
imploring  the  woman  on  the  floor  to  calm  herself  and 
restrain  her  grief. 

Whatever  his  life  may  have  been,  his  death  affected 
Adams  strangely.  The  magnetism  of  the  man's  char- 
acter had  taken  a  strong  hold  upon  him,  fascinating  him 
with  the  fascination  that  strength  alone  can  exercise. 
And  the  man  he  regretted  was  not  the  ambiguous  being, 
the  amended  Berselius,  so  obviously  a  failure,  but  the 
real  Berselius  who  had  returned  to  meet  death. 


CHAPTER    XLII 

AMIDST   THE    LILIES 

ONE  day  in  March,  nine  months  later,  at  Champ- 
rosay,  in  the  garden  of  a  little  cottage  near  the 
Paris  road,  Maxine  Berselius  stood  directing 
the  movements  of  an  old  man  in  a  blue  blouse  —  Father 
Champardy  by  name,  and  a  gardener  bj  profession. 

On  the  death  of  her  father,  Maxine  had  come  to  an 
arrangement  with  her  mother,  eminently  suited'^o  the 
minds  and  tastes  of  both  women. 

Maxine  absolutely  refused  to  touch  any  part  of  the 
colossal  fortune  left  by  her  father.  She  knew  how  it 
had  been  come  by,  and  as  she  had  a  small  fortune  of  her 
own,  a  very  small  fortune  of  some  ten  thousand  francs 
a  year  settled  on  her  by  an  uncle  at  her  birth,  she  deter- 
mined to  live  on  it,  and  go  her  own  way  in  life. 

Art  was  to  her  far  preferable  to  society,  and  in  a  little 
cottage  with  one  woman  for  a  servant,  ten  thousand 
francs  a  year  were  affluence. 

Madame  Berselius,  who  had  no  scruple  in  using  money 
obtained  in  any  way  whatsoever,  fell  in  with  her  daughter's 
views  after  a  few  formal  objections. 

Gillette  had  furnished  the  cottage  as  only  a  French 
firm  can  furnish  a  cottage,  and  the  garden,  which  had 

315 


316  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

gone  to  decay,  Maxine  had  furnished  herself  with  the 
help  of  Father  Champardy. 

Adams,  after  the  death  of  Berselius,  had  lingered  on 
in  Paris  to  settle  up  his  affairs,  going  back  to  the  Rue 
Dijon  and  taking  up  his  old  life  precisely  at  the  point 
where  he  had  broken  it  off. 

But  he  was  richer  by  three  things.  Two  days  after 
Berselius's  death,  news  came  to  him  from  America  of  the 
death  of  an  uncle  whom  he  had  never  seen  and  the  fact 
that  he  had  inherited  his  property.  It  was  not  very 
much  as  money  goes  in  America,  but  it  was  real  estate 
in  New  York  City  and  would  bring  in  some  seven  or  eight 
hundred  pounds  a  year.  He  was  richer  by  the  experience 
he  had  gained  and  the  Humanity  he  had  discovered  in 
himself,  and  he  was  richer  by  his  love  for  Maxine. 

But  love  itself  was  subordinate  in  the  mind  of  Adams 
to  the  burning  question  that  lay  at  his  heart.  He  had 
put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  and  he  was  not  the  man  to 
turn  aside  till  the  end  of  the  furrow  was  reached.  He 
would  have  time  to  go  to  America,  in  any  event,  to  look 
after  his  property.  He  decided  to  stay  some  months  in 
England;  to  attack  the  British  Lion  in  its  stronghold; 
to  explain  the  infamies  of  the  Congo,  and  then  cross  the 
Atlantic  and  put  the  matter  before  the  American  Eagle. 

He  did. 

For  seven  months  he  had  been  away,  and  every  week  he 
had  written  to  Maxine,  saying  little  enough  about  the 
progress  of  his  work,  and  frequently  using  the  cryptic 
statement,  "I  will  tell  you  everything  when  I  come  back." 

And  "He  will  be  back  to-day,"  murmured  Maxine, 


AMIDST  THE  LILIES  317 

as  she  stood  in  the  little  garden  watching  the  old  man  at 
his  work. 

The  newness  and  the  freshness  of  spring  were  in  the 
air,  snow  that  had  fallen  three  days  ago  was  nearly  gone, 
just  a  trace  of  it  lay  on  the  black  earth  of  the  flower  beds; 
white  crocuses,  blue  crocuses,  snow-drops,  those  first 
trumpeters  of  spring,  blew  valiantly  in  the  little  garden, 
the  air  was  sharp  and  clear,  and  the  sky  above  blue  and 
sparkling.  Great  masses  of  white  cloud  filled  the  horizon, 
sun-stricken,  fair,  and  snow-bright,  solid  as  mountains, 
and  like  far-off  mountains  filled  with  the  fascination  and 
the  call  of  distance. 

"Spring  is  here,"  cried  the  birds  from  the  new-budding 
trees. 

The  blackbird  in  Dr.  Pons's  garden  to  the  left,  answered 
a  rapturous  thrush  in  the  trees  across  the  way,  children's 
voices  came  from  the  Paris  road  and  the  sounds  of  wheels 
and  hoofs. 

A  sparrow  with  a  long  straw  in  its  beak  flew  right 
across  Maxine's  garden,  a  little  winged  poem,  a  couplet 
enclosing  the  whole  story  of  spring. 

Maxine  smiled  as  it  vanished,  then  she  turned;  the 
garden  gate  had  clicked  its  latch,  and  a  big  man  was 
coming  up  the  path. 

There  was  only  Father  Champardy  to  see;  and  as 
his  back  was  turned,  he  saw  nothing  and  as  he  was  deaf, 
he  heard  nothing.  The  old  man,  bent  and  warped  by 
the  years,  deaf,  and  blind  to  the  little  love-scene  behind 
him,  was,  without  knowing  it,  also  a  poem  of  spring;  but 
not  so  joyous  as  the  poem  of  the  sparrow. 


318  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

"And  now  tell  me  all,"  said  Maxine,  as  they  sat  in  the 
chintz-hung  sitting  room  before  a  bright  fire  of  logs. 
They  had  finished  their  private  affairs.  The  day  was 
two  hours  older,  and  a  sunbeam  that  had  pointed  at  them 
through  the  diamond-paned  window  had  travelled  away 
and  vanished.  The  day  was  darker  outside,  and  it  was 
as  though  spring  had  lost  her  sportive  mood  and  then 
withdrawn,  not  wishing  to  hear  the  tale  that  Adams 
had  to  tell. 

In  Adams's  hand  Papeete's  skull  had  been  a  talisman 
of  terrible  and  magical  power,  for  with  it  he  had  touched 
men,  and  the  men  touched  had  disclosed  their  worth 
and  their  worthlessness.  It  had  been  a  lamp  which 
showed  him  society  as  it  is. 

The  life  and  death  of  Berselius  had  been  an  object 
lesson  for  him,  teaching  vividly  the  fact  that  evil  is  inde- 
structible; that  wash  yourself  with  holy  water  or  wash 
yourself  with  soap,  you  will  never  wash  away  the  evil 
being  that  you  have  constructed  by  long  years  of  evil- 
doing  and  evil-thinking. 

His  pilgrimage  in  search  of  mercy  and  redress  for  a 
miserable  people  had  emphasized  the  fact. 

The  great  crime  of  the  Congo  stood  gigantic,  like  a 
shadowy  engine  for  the  murdering  of  souls. 

"Destroy  that,"  said  the  devil  triumphantly.  "You 
cannot,  for  it  is  past  destruction;  it  has  passed  into  the 
world  of  the  ideal.  No  man's  hand  may  touch  it;  it  is 
beyond  the  reach  like  the  real  self  of  your  friend  Berselius. 
Sweep  the  Congo  State  away  to-morrow;  this  will  remain. 
A  thing  soul-destroying  till  the  end  of  time.  It  began 


AMIDST  THE  LILIES  319 

small  in  the  brain  of  one  ruinous  man,  God  whom  I  hate! 
look  at  it  now. 

"  It  has  slain  ten  million  men  and  it  will  slay  ten  million 
more,  that  is  nothing;  it  has  ruined  body  and  soul,  the 
stokers  who  fed  it  and  the  engineers  who  worked  it, 
that  is  nothing;  it  has  tangled  in  its  wheels  and  debased 
the  consciences  of  five  nations,  that  is  nothing.  It  is 
eternal  —  that  is  everything. 

"  Since  I  was  flung  out  of  heaven,  I  have  made  many 
things,  but  this  is  my  masterpiece.  Ii  I  and  all  my  works 
were  swept  away,  leaving  only  this  thing,  it  would  be 
enough.  In  the  fiftieth  century  it  will  still  have  its  clutch 
on  man,  yea,  and  to  the  very  end  of  time." 

Cause  and  effect,  my  friend,  in  those  two  words  you 
have  the  genius  of  this  machine  which  will  exist  forever 
in  the  world  of  consequence,  a  world  beyond  divine  or 
human  appeal. 

In  England,  Adams  had  found  himself  confronted 
with  the  dull  lethargy  of  the  people,  and  the  indifference 
of  the  Established  Church.  The  two  great  divisions 
of  Christ's  Church  were  at  the  moment  at  death  grapples 
over  the  question  of  Education.  Only  amongst  the 
Noncomformists  could  be  found  any  real  response  to  the 
question  which  was,  and  is,  the  test  question  which  will 
disclose,  according  to  its  answer,  whether  Christianity 
is  a  living  voice  from  on  high,  or  an  echo  from  the  Pagan 
past;  and  a  debased  echo  at  that.  Debased,  for  if  Adams 
could  have  stood  in  the  Agora  of  Athens  and  told  his 
tale  of  horror  and  truth,  could  Demosthenes  have  taken 
up  the  story;  could  Leopold  the  Barbarian  have  been 


320  THE  POOLS  OF  SILENCE 

a  king  in  those  days,  and  have  done  in  those  days,  under 
the  mandate  of  a  deluded  Greece,  what  he  has  done 
under  the  mandate  of  a  deluded  England;  what  a  living 
spirit  would  have  run  through  Athens  like  a  torch,  how 
the  phalanxes  would  have  formed,  and  the  beaked  ships 
at  Piraeus  torn  themselves  from  their  moorings,  to  bring 
to  Athens  in  chains  the  ruffian  who  had  murdered  and 
tortured  in  her  name! 

To  complete  the  situation  and  give  it  a  touch  of  hope- 
lessness, he  found  that  others  had  striven  well,  yet  almost 
vainly  in  the  field.  Men  working  for  truth  and  justice 
as  other  men  work  for  gold,  had  attacked  the  public 
with  solid  battalions  of  facts,  tabulated  infamies;  there 
had  been  meetings,  discussions,  words,  palabres,  as  they 
say  in  the  south;  but  the  murderer  had  calmly  gone 
on  with  his  work,  and  England  had  put  out  no  hand 
to  stay  him. 

But  it  was  not  till  he  reached  America,  that  Adams 
found  himself  fighting  the  machine  itself. 

One  great  man  with  a  living  voice  he  found  —  Mark 
Twain  —  and  one  great  paper,  at  least.  These  had 
raised  their  voices  calling  for  Justice  —  with  what  result  ? 

Two  side  facts  the  skull  of  Papeete  showed  to  the 
searcher,  as  a  lamp  shows  up  other  things  than  the  things 
searched  for.  The  deadness  of  the  English  Church  to  the 
spiritual,  and  the  corruption  of  his  own  countrymen. 

When  he  had  finished,  it  was  dark  outside.  The 
firelight  lit  up  the  little  room.  Glancing  through  the 
diamond-paned  window  at  that  happy  interior,  one  would 
never  have  guessed  that  the  man  by  the  fire  had  been 


AMIDST  THE  LILIES 

telling  the  girl  by  his  side  not  a  love  story,  but  the  story  of 
the  world's  greatest  crime. 

Maxine,  whose  hand  was  resting  on  the  hand  of  her 
companion,  said  nothing  for  a  moment  after  he  had 
ceased  speaking.  Then,  in  a  half-whisper,  and  leaning 
her  forehead  on  his  hand,  "  Poor  things,"  sighed  Maxine. 

So  attuned  were  her  thoughts  to  the  thoughts  of  her 
companion,  that  she  voiced  the  very  words  that  were 
in  his  mind,  as  gazing  beyond  his  own  happiness  and  a 
thousand  miles  of  sea  and  forest,  he  saw  again  the  moon- 
light on  the  mist  of  the  Silent  Pools,  and  the  bleached  and 
miserable  bones. 


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